


songs of kissing and love

by sameboots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:11:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 38,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: A place to collect various prompt responses and ficlets written on tumblr.Pairing willprimarilybe Jaime/Brienne. However, I've been toying with Jaime/Brienne/Addam lately. However, any of those will be clearly labeled at the start so they're skippable by people that don't like threesomes!





	1. Chapter 1

** _For Tropes Meme: Mutual Pining + Accidental Eavesdropping_ **

Jaime really and truly doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He’s not really that kind of guy. He’s more of a rush in head first, trip, and somehow fall so that his foot is inserted directly into his mouth kind of guy.

All he wants is to get away from the cramped ballroom. The Annual Historical Society of King’s Landing Charity Gala is akin to having every tooth removed from his mouth with rusty pliers. It’s hardly his fault that he’s about to round the corner into a darkened hallway only to be stopped by the sound of Brienne Tarth hissing, “S_top_. You don’t know Jaime the way I do.”

“Would you please just trust me?” Another woman’s voice, clearly frustrated.

“No,” Brienne says firmly.

“I may not know Jaime as well as you, but that’s why you need to listen to me. No, you’ll hear me out,” she says just as resolutely. “He looks at you like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you against a wall or drop to one knee and propose.”

Jaime’s heart stops, then pounds a furious rhythm, his pulse beating so hard it feels like his skull is suddenly too small. He thought he’d been so careful. The last thing he wants is to scare Brienne off or—she’s too—her friendship means too much to ruin it with his dick.

“Sansa,” Brienne says, sounding almost sad, at least dejected. “Please. Just because I fell for yet another unobtainable man doesn’t mean…just because Jaime isn’t gay, it doesn’t mean I have a chance with him.”

“Oh shut up. That’s not the reason I think he wants you. Would I really set you up for humiliation? Is that the kind of friend you think I am?”

“No!” Brienne says, several octaves louder than the rest of the conversation, startling Jaime. Then softer again she says, “I just think you love me too much to see the reality of the situation. Jaime Lannister is the Warrior made over and I’m the Crone.”

It’s like a punch to the gut hearing the resigned way she says it. He just—even if it ruins everything, he can’t let her think…

He rounds the corner. Sansa Stark is facing him and her eyes immediately go as wide as saucers at the sight of him. Brienne whips her head around to see what startled her. She whispers, “Jaime,” with fear laced throughout those five letters.

“Can you leave us?” he asks Sansa. Sansa looks to Brienne who pauses and then nods hesitantly. Sansa squeezes her arm on the way past and gives Jaime a glare promising a painful death if he hurts Brienne.

Jaime watches as Brienne draws a deep, shuddering breath before turning to face him.

“I don’t know how much you heard,” she says shakily. “But—“

“I love you,” he interrupts her. For a second she looks shocked then confused and then, strangely, sad.

“I know,” she says, with a frown.

“No, Brienne, I love _you_. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t risk losing you. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Jaime,” she says, still disbelieving enough that he strides toward her and kisses her with all of the want that has built within him for the last four years.

He thanks all of the gods that she kisses him back.


	2. Chapter 2

_ **For Tropes Meme: Interrupted Declaration of Love + Time Travel** _

The problem with hopping and skipping through time, Jaime finds, is that it never seems to happen at the right time. He’ll blink and find himself in a confusing place, with objects he can’t comprehend, too-bright candles with no flames, people sitting in strange things that move faster than carriages with no horses in sight.

Or he’ll find himself in a time before castles and swords, times where people simply live in caves or huts.

Thankfully, he spends the most of his time in his Westeros. Sometimes he travels mere months or years in his own time. He’s seen himself as a child, even. It hurts in some way to see a time when Cersei wasn’t the monster she becomes. It hurts more to know how soon she creates her own end.

It hurts the most to see Brienne throughout her years. To see her as a child, crying on the cliffs of Tarth. To see her as an old woman, her face lined with scars and wrinkles. It hurts perhaps the most to see her when his linear years kept him with her, allowed him to love her, but not out loud, not so she knows.

He knows there must be rules, he hesitates to interfere with any of it. But when he appears to Brienne in the white and gold of the Kingsguard, a three-eyes raven emblazoned in her breastplate, hand shaking as she writes his own story in The White Book that he can’t listen to his smarter inner-voice.

He walks from the corner and whispers her name. Her head jerks up, mouth slack and she stands so quickly her chair crashes to the floor with a loud bang.

“Jaime?” Her voice trembles, her lips quiver, and she goes as pale as a ghost. “How—“

“I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” he says in a rush. He walks toward her, not even knowing if he’ll be able to touch her. She flinches when he raises a hand to cup her cheek, but allows the touch and, oh, she’s warm against his palm. She presses against him, her eyes fluttering closed.

“I don’t understand,” she says, voice creaking with pain and confusion.

“I don’t have time to explain now,” Jaime says, desperately afraid of disappearing before he has a chance to say what he should have before leaving her. “I need you to know that I lo—“

He’s gone before he can finish the word.


	3. Chapter 3

_ **For Tropes Meme: I Didn’t Mean to Turn You On + Secret Relationship. Takes place in We Make the Rules ‘verse.** _

Jaime has seen Brienne tear into numerous people over the years. She never does it with viciousness or fury. She does it calmly and rationally, which is, of course, infuriating for anyone on the other side of it. She saves the vicious fury for Jaime and Jaime alone. The difference, of course, is that Jaime now has a Brienne Switch. 

Nearly everything about Brienne that was once just and aspect of his coworker’s personality has now become a trigger for all of the blood to rush to his cock. 

There’s nothing particularly spectacular about the way Brienne takes control of Euron. She corrals him like a particularly adept au pair with an unruly toddler. Somehow, that makes it worse. It’s when she interlaces her fingers together on top of the desk, and her voice gets just a smidge tighter, that Jaime’s problem begins to make itself known. When Euron continues to act like the piece of shit he is, Brienne escalates to threats of the meeting being cut short if he can’t focus on the matters at hand. 

He refuses, of course. Even if Euron has deep, deep pockets, he doesn’t have the sense of self-preservation that the gods gave a goat. Then he makes the vast error of insinuating that Brienne doesn’t have the authority to kick him out when he’s paying her salary. 

“This appointment is over,” Jaime interrupts finally, even though he knows it’ll piss off Brienne. Euron stops mid-sentence, turns a furious red, and opens his mouth again to say the Seven only know what. Jaime doesn’t allow him to say anything. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have no choice but to have you removed. I don’t care if you’re a client. We have others.” 

“Go fuck yourself. I’ll find other representation,” Euron spits before leaving the room. It’s an empty threat, even if Jaime wishes it wasn’t. 

“Brienne,” Jaime says when Euron is safely down the hall. “Shut the door, please.”

“What?” She looks at him with burgeoning anger. “If you’re about to suggest that I handled the situation incorrectly…”

“Seven Hells, that is not what this is about. Would you please just shut the door?” 

Confused though she may be, Brienne gets up and shuts the door as requested. “What’s going on?” she asks, turning around to lean against the door. 

“I need a minute.” Brienne’s brows furrow even more, so he clarifies, “I can’t walk around the office with an erection, Brienne.”

“But what–”

“The way you handled Euron Greyjoy is one of the most arousing things I’ve ever seen,” Jaime interrupts, shifting uncomfortably in the chair. “It’s taking every ounce of self-control I have to not recreate the supply closet.”

Brienne flushes, a wave of pink spilling from her cheeks down her neck and disappearing into the starched collar of her shirt. It’s unfortunate for his cock that Jaime knows exactly how far that blush spreads. 

“We can’t,” she says, her voice husky with the same desire Jaime feels.

“Then you need to leave and shut the door on your way out,” Jaime says. “Soon.” 

She hesitates just long enough for him to think that just maybe–

“Tonight,” she says. “We’ll…against the wall.”

“_Fuck_.” Jaime groans. “Go.”

Brienne goes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a Sharing One Bed prompt.

One of these days, she’s going to stop listening to Jaime. That she has made this vow to herself no fewer than thirty times is beside the point. 

It’s Jaime’s idea that they take a pre-grad school road trip. It’s also his brilliant idea to drive from Riverrun University to Tarth, to drop Brienne at her dad’s for a summer break visit.

Brienne noting that Lannisport is much closer to Riverrun than Tarth, and therefore it makes absolutely no sense for Jaime to drive her to Tarth before going home is met with him grabbing her tightly by the shoulders, an almost manic grin on his face, as he says, “You have no sense of adventure, Brie.”

Brienne’s reminder that Tarth is an island, and therefore, driving to it directly would prove difficult even for the Jaime Lannister fell on deaf ears. 

(There is a ferry from Storm’s End, but she wouldn’t be Brienne and he wouldn’t be Jaime if she didn’t rib him about his handwaving of finer details in his grand schemes.)

In fact, Jaime’s complete inability to focus on the finer details is exactly why Brienne finds herself staring at a single bed in a musty motel room somewhere between Stoney Sept and Tumbleton. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Brienne stares at the bed, covered in a dusty looking coverlet that may have been red at some point in the distant, distant past.

She looks over at Jaime to find him staring at it, a weird look on his face. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says, without even looking at her. 

Oh, for the gods’ sakes. 

“Don’t pull that noble shit,” she grumbles at him. “I’m not getting back in a car with you if you’re coated in fleas, or gods’ know what else is on the floor.” Brienne swallows, looking at the bed that would be a tight squeeze for two average-sized people, much less her and Jaime. “We’ll share.”

His head snaps around, a startled look on his face. “We’ll share?”

Somehow, his reticence just aggravates her further. First, he drags her on a ridiculous road trip when they could both afford the plane tickets. Then, he decides to ‘take the scenic’ route instead of just taking the King’s Road Highway like every reasonable person would. Then, he manages to hit a massive pothole in the road, blow a tire to smithereens and then not have a spare. 

The fact that now he wants to act like a maiden from an old tale, getting verily faint at the idea of sharing a bed with someone of the opposite sex while unwed is infuriating. 

“If the idea is that upsetting to you, we’ll just stick a bag between us,” Brienne snaps at him. “I would hate to offend your virtuous sensibilities.” 

A laugh escapes Jaime like it’s been punched out of him. He shakes his head a bit, as if clearing the cobwebs out. “You hate when I try to sit next to you on the couch, excuse me for thinking you wouldn’t want to share a bed barely big enough for two kids.”

Brienne curses herself for blushing, but she can feel the heat in her cheeks. She doesn’t hate sitting next to Jaime. She hates that he has absolutely no awareness of what it does to her when he smiles at her, and tries to cuddle up to her like he’s a needy puppy. Jaime Lannister. Just. Doesn’t. Get. It. 

He never will. Jaime has never had to pine for anyone in his godsdamned life. He’s beautiful, rich, charming, athletic–he’s everything Brienne is not. Well, except for the athletic part. They’re fairly well matched in that respect, but where his broad shoulders and taut stomach cause a wave of swooning in his wake, Brienne’s same broad shoulders and taut stomach cause only stares or outright derision.

People aren’t soft with Brienne. They don’t treat Brienne like they treat Sansa, or Margaery, or even Daenerys (who may be the scariest human Brienne’s met other than Jaime’s sister). Everyone except for Jaime.

It’s all a game to him, and she knows that. He thinks it’s funny to treat Brienne like she’s as gentle and petite as Elia Martell. He thinks it’s funny to drop a flower on her desk as he takes the seat across from her. He thinks it’s amusing to present her with a perfect, shiny red apple when he sees her in the quad. He thinks it’s hilarious to sling an arm around her and press a kiss to her temple when he plops down next to her at home games for the Riverrun Trouts. 

She knows he thinks it is, because he laughs when he does it, and if he doesn’t laugh, he can’t stop smiling. Because when he does it, one of their other friends rolls their eyes at him and he winks at them. 

The shittiest part, though, is that Brienne soaks it all up like a sponge. She’s a desperate, sad woman who accepts those illusions of romance because Jaime is truly the best friend she’s ever had. He may be a ridiculous flirt and clown, but he’s also kind and helpful and he did break his hand defending her against a group of assholes one time, so, he’s worth it. 

“Brienne?”

She blinks at the sound of his voice, refocusing on the bed and then his face, now lined with worry. 

“I’m taking first shower,” she tells him. 

She leaves him standing there, and barely restrains herself from slamming the bathroom door shut. 

–

Jaime walks out of the bathroom, skin still damp enough that his t-shirt clings to him in spots. 

Brienne’s seen him in less a million times before, but knowing that he’s about to crawl into a too-small bed with her makes her pulse beat as frantically as a scared rabbit’s. She’s going to have to try and sleep with his shower-warmed skin against her, his scent–even beneath the cheap motel soaps–surrounding her. She suddenly realizes what a terrible idea this is, but she can’t back out now, or he might know.

He hesitates at the side of the bed, finally giving up on scrubbing the excess water out of his hair and dropping the towel onto the ratty chair in the corner. He should have the decency to look ridiculous with his shaggy hair sticking in a thousand different directions, but, of course, he doesn’t. He looks sinful. 

She doesn’t know if he sees something on her face, because his own falls a little, a line creasing between his eyebrows. “I really will take the floor,” he offers. 

Brienne scoffs. “Get in bed, Jaime,” she makes a show of trying to scoot over to give him more room. “You’re not some knight in shining armor. You don’t need to sacrifice your comfort to prove your worth.” 

He doesn’t grin or flop onto the bed like she expects. Instead, he crawls in carefully, keeping as far from her as possible. That stings, for some reason. Maybe he’s so disgusted by the idea of being in a bed with her, that he can’t even stand to touch her, lest his pathetic beast of a friend get the wrong idea. 

Brienne swallows thickly and turns away from him, curling her arms around the pancake thin bit of fabric masquerading as a pillow. She can feel Jaime shifting around, trying to get as comfortable as possible. She tries not to flinch away every time he brushes against her. 

She breathes a sigh of relief when he finally settles and doesn’t move for a solid fifteen seconds.

But, of course, just as she’s on the precipice of actual relaxation, he asks, “Hey, Brienne?”

“Yes, Jaime?”

He hesitates long enough that she rolls until she can see his face. He’s looking at her with a strangely heavy expression. She would swear his eyes drop to her lips as he drags his lower lip into his mouth, scraping it along his teeth, leaving it shiny and deep pink. Her breath grows more shallow the longer he looks at her. 

“What?” she asks him, heart lodged in her throat for some reason, her voice trembling.

That seems to snap him out of whatever reverie he’s in. His eyes dart back to meet hers. 

“Goodnight,” he says faintly and lies down.

She blinks at him, his face so close to hers now. He’s close enough she can smell the mint of his toothpaste, and hear the soft sigh of his breathing. 

For a hung moment, she thinks about just doing it. She thinks about kissing him. Saying fuck it all, and at least trying. The worst-case scenario–well, the worst-case scenario is why she never will. He’s Jaime. He’s her favorite person. The best person she knows, even if he’ll never let most people see it. 

So, instead, what she says is, “Goodnight,” and rolls over.

It’s a while before she falls asleep, but she’s pretty sure he’s still awake when she finally does.


	5. Chapter 5

Jaime doesn’t even know how the fight starts. They’re lying in bed, his head on Brienne’s shoulder, and her fingers carding through his rumpled hair. But then, in his state of fucked-out-bliss, he opened his mouth and something he doesn’t even clearly remember fell out and now Brienne is frantically, furiously searching through his room for her clothing. 

They don’t fight. They bicker. Silly little disagreements that involve a lot of glaring, followed by intense kissing, and some very heavy petting. Or sex. Frequently, the squabbles just turn into one of them jerking the other close by their collar, a rending of garments, and then a battle for dominance that Jaime never truly wants to win, he just wants to be beaten.

But something goes sideways. He’s left satiated in bed, clearly having said whatever triggered the initial tiff, and trying to bring his orgasm-wrecked brain back online before Brienne actually leaves. 

She’s red from her hairline to her breasts, an angry red, not at all like the delicate pink of arousal. She yanks her white button-up from the top of his lamp, and viciously, viciously pulls it on. He focuses as her breasts disappear from view to hear her saying, “–and to really make matters worse, you aren’t even listening to me. Which has been our main problem from day–what is wrong with my shirt?”

The shoulders pull tightly against the curve of her shoulders, cuffs ending just above wrists. But the thing that makes Jaime laugh so hard his eyes water, is the sight of her confusedly trying to button the shirt, only to be pulled up short by the buttons not quite meeting over her chest. 

She glares, and he laughs even harder.

“It’s my shirt,” he finally explains.

She rips it off her shoulders with a huff. “Yes, Jaime, I had realized that.”

Brienne’s back to her search, though her body is a little less tense, her righteous indignation sidelined by the shirt incident. Jaime spots it first. In the frenzy, it was flung on his side of the bed–because he has a side of his own bed now–the collar caught on a handle of his bedside table. He glances to make sure she’s still looking and is gleeful at the sight of her on her hands and knees looking under every piece of furniture. 

Jaime pulls it on quickly, pleased at the way it wraps around him. It smells faintly of her laundry detergent and shampoo and whatever else makes up the smell that just calls Brienne to mind. By the time she turns around, he has himself artfully arranged on his bed, above the sheets, head propped up on his hand, his best come-hither smile on his lips.

It actually works. Brienne’s scowl transforms into a different sort of heat. 

He looks down and plucks at one of the buttons. “I found your shirt.” 

“Give me my shirt,” she says in her best boss voice.

It hasn’t even been twenty minutes and his cock is already giving a real college try at coming to full attention. 

“Hmm,” he hums, and rakes his eyes from her face to her legs, pausing just long enough to watch in satisfaction as her nipples harden under his gaze. “I’m really very comfortable. I’m afraid you’ll have to come and wrest it away from my clutches.”

“Jaime,” she admonishes, but he sees her eyes flick up and down his body, and the way her tongue darts out to wet her still kiss-plumped lips.

He affects a yawn and drops his to the pillow, only leaving his eyes half-lidded as he looks at her. “Come back to bed.”

She wavers, her mouth set in a stubborn line. He smiles at her, not a shit-eating grin, or an aggravating smirk, just that soft smile that he really always feels in his chest when he sees her. That’s what makes her face soften. She rolls her eyes, but she does shuck her pants and crawl back into bed with him.

He kisses her softly, fingers against her cheek. When he pulls back, she’s almost completely relaxed again. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, placing a soft kiss against her temple. “You know my mouth just runs after I’ve come.” He strokes the line of her blush with his thumb. “If you tell me what I said, because I genuinely do not know, I’ll apologize properly.”

Brienne sighs and presses into the caress. “In the morning.” 

“You’re staying?”

“Yeah,” she says, tucking closer to him and plucking at the buttons of her own shirt. “I’m staying.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Aviss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even think this technically fits the prompt by Aviss and I have no idea what the ending is. BUT HERE YA GO???

_ **Star Crossed Lovers + It’s Not You, It’s My Enemies ** _

Jaime first meets Brienne on a failed diplomatic mission to Tarth. 

Tarth is a remote island, poor in regards to money, rich in iron needed for weapon forging. Iron which the Westerlands lack. It’s up to Jaime to charm the Evenstar, Selwyn Tarth, enough so that he’s willing to trade gold for the invaluable metal. 

It does not go well. For starters, the Evenstar has decided not to meet with Jaime, instead insulting him by sending his own daughter of no more than ten-and-three. Even at that age, she’s nearly eye-level to Jaime, broad, with a rough-hewn face more befitting a grown man than a girl. Yet, there’s something delicate about her, a softness to her beautiful eyes and limpid gaze. 

“Welcome to Tarth, Ser Jaime,” she says quietly, bowing instead of curtseying. She blushes furiously when he raises an eyebrow. 

“Thank you, Lady…” 

“Brienne,” she mumbles. 

“Lady  _ Brienne _ ,” he says, nearly purring. 

She blanches. 

“I’m sorry my father isn’t available to meet with you, Ser.” She’s terrible at lying, her hands fidgeting with her skirt. “He was unavoidably detained by his small council.”

Jaime hums. “Of course,” he says flatly. “I could hardly blame him for tending to urgent matters.” 

\--

It’s been two days of the Evenstar avoiding private conversation with Jaime when he finds Lady Brienne on the cliffs overlooking the Narrow Sea. She’s putting herself through drills, clearly recreating something she’s seen the Master at Arms teaching the young men of Tarth. She’s not bad, but she’s plainly missed the attention of a true teacher.

He clears his throat and she drops the tourney sword immediately, the dull steel clanging against the stones. 

“You certainly won’t survive if that’s all it takes to disarm you,” he says loudly enough she’ll hear him clearly across the distance. 

“Ser,” she says, her voice shaking with fear. “This isn’t what it looks like.” 

“No?” He saunters toward her. He knows he’s sauntering. It’s entirely on purpose. He does love to unnerve people. “It appears that you’re practicing drills. Is that not what you’re doing?” Her lips, already thick and swollen further from the abuse of her teeth biting into them as she worked, thin into a pale line, but she doesn’t attempt to lie again. “Ah, so it / _ is/ _ what it appears.”

She nods sharply. 

“You’re not bad,” he allows, voicing his thoughts and coming to stand in front of her. He pulls his sword from its sheath, her eyes widening with more than a touch of fear at the noise. “I’m not going to hurt you. Pick up your sword.” When she doesn’t move, he firmly says, “Now, Lady Brienne.”

She’s brutally strong but clumsy. It takes him only a few minutes to disarm her. She’s red from exertion now, instead of embarrassment, and no small amount of frustration.

“Again,” he commands. She picks up her sword again. Again, he disarms her in short order, but she lasts a bit longer.

He finds himself impressed with how quickly she learns. Every bought lasts a little longer than the preceding one until she’s finally so tired, the sword trembles in her hand, her arm shaking so hard she can barely keep it up. He isn’t immune to the effects of the practice himself, his own shoulder aching in a pleasant, familiar way.

“Tomorrow,” he tells her, breathing heavily. “Meet me here. We’ll practice more.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to respond before walking away, but she’s there the next day and the day after that, every day until it’s time for him to depart Tarth, no closer to a trade agreement than when he arrived. 

\--

Jaime visits Tarth several times over the next few years. Diplomacy has never been his strength, try those his father does to make him excel through practice. Every time, he meets Brienne on the cliffs to practice. She improves steadily over the years until she’s nearly as good as him. She certainly becomes good enough that he can only manage a few bouts against her before his own arm is too tired, his breath too heavy, to continue. 

When she’s sixteen, he visits for the final time, though he doesn’t know it yet. It’s their fifth bout of the day, both of them panting and barely able to lift their swords when she makes an idiotic feint, clearly too tired to make it believable. He smacks her with the flat of his sword on the thigh, hard enough that it will swell and blossom into a bruise the size of her fist. 

She growls, angry at what he meant as punishment, and rushes him. She tackles him to the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. She pins him down, large hands gripping his wrists and pressing them into the rocky ground. Her thighs are strong as they squeeze against his hips, holding him in place. 

He’s hard and hates himself for it. He can’t buck her off of him, but he does manage to get enough leverage to flip her over so he’s on top, her hands still around his wrists. Stupidly, he didn’t consider that this position would fit his cock right against her cunt. She shifts beneath him, intent on flipping them again when she must feel him, going still and wide-eyed. He wonders slightly at how she knows exactly what’s pressed against her, but it doesn’t stop him from taking her mouth in a searing kiss. She stiffens even more, if that’s possible, before hesitantly softening her lips, allowing his tongue to slide into her mouth, stroking against her own.

Just as suddenly, he’s hit with the fact that she’s only sixteen, a highborn lady, not someone to be compromised on a windy cliff overlooking the Narrow Sea. He shoves away from her, hastily climbs to his feet and ignores the way his cock tents his trousers. 

He bows deeply. “My apologies, Lady Brienne, I forgot myself.”

He leaves her lying there, pushed up onto her elbows, staring at him in wonder as he walks away.

\--

Jaime doesn’t see her again for nearly four years. When he does, he’s tied to a post, held captive by the Starks and she stands above him, armored as she should be, her hair cut shorter than many men’s, her expression laced with some horrid combination of pain and anger.

“Lady Brienne,” he greets her. 

Catelyn Stark’s head whips to stare at Brienne, wide-eyed. 

“You know him?” she asks in astonishment. 

“I did at one time,” Brienne allows, not even tearing her eyes from Jaime’s face to address Catelyn. “I don’t any longer.”

It’s ridiculous that it hurts to hear her say that. As if she wasn’t aware all along that their families were in opposition to one another. 

“I wouldn’t say that with such certainty,” Jaime says, curling his mouth into a smarmy smile. 

\--

She drags him bodily through the Riverlands. She defeats him with a sword for the first time, and he would claim it’s due only to the weeks tied to a post, but he thinks she might stand a choice even when he’s at full-strength. 

When the bandits take his sword hand, she cares for him better than he deserves, far better than he expects.

When he finds her in the bath at Harrenhal and joins her. When he confesses all of his sundry misdeeds, she looks at him with the same tremulous wonder as when he kissed her. When he collapses, she catches him.

She is better than he could ever hope to deserve, but that night she tends him again, helping him dress, careful of his healing stump. When he leaves her, she doesn’t protest, she doesn’t judge him. She looks him in the eye with the same respect she held for him all those years ago on Tarth. 

When he comes back for her, jumps into a bear pit to save her, down one hand and weaponless, she names him a fool. 

When he pulls her into the forest, away from their escort to King’s Landing, and presses her against a tree, she allows him. 

When he kisses her, softly at first, and then so hard he nearly cuts his lips on her teeth, she kisses him back just as desperately. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Have I Done????
> 
> Aka, _We Make the Rules_ chapter one from Jaime's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me why this happened. I took a tumblr meme one-step too far.
> 
> This is completely unbeta'd and written in basically a fever-dream like state, meaning, roughly 3300 words in a few hours. 
> 
> ...Enjoy???

It’s a normal enough Thursday. 

Jaime stays late at the office, trying to make enough progress on the Greyjoy case that he feels comfortable maybe having an actual weekend before things get too far along. Brienne is with him, of course, silently working on her own stack of annotated documentation from her paralegal, Podrick. He’s in the middle of yet another overly long, technical report from yet another ‘expert’ regarding the angle of the gunshot wound when Brienne interrupts him.

“I have a favor to ask you,” she says. 

“Mmmhmm?” Jaime hums, not looking up from his papers, assuming she wants to make sure she can have the weekend. 

“Can you look at me when I ask?” 

Jaime looks up, raising his eyebrow at the rushed way in which Brienne asked. She looks so uncomfortable and tense, that Jaime begins to worry something is truly wrong. Before he can ask, she says, “Wait, maybe don’t look at me.”

He raises both eyebrows at that. His normally calm, cool, and collected co-worker looks very, very close to trembling. 

“Never mind,” she mumbles. 

“Oh no,” Jaime says, almost delighted at seeing her so unmanned. “Now I have to know why you look like you’re about to dive off a cliff.”

She stares at him, a flush beginning to stain her cheeks. “Iwantyoutosleepwithme.”

Jaime blinks. She says it so quickly, he almost doesn’t understand her. Perhaps he didn’t, because there’s no way… “Can you say that a bit slower?”

“No,” she says flatly. 

“Okay, well.” Jaime can’t quite believe the words that are about to come out of his mouth. “What it sounded like is you asking me to sleep with you.”

The fact that she doesn’t laugh at him is surprising enough, that her response is a simple _yes_ is downright shocking. 

He stares at her, at the way her face becomes even redder than it does when she’s furious with him. 

“I’ve never heard you go monosyllabic before,” he says, if only in the hopes of breaking some of the tension. Instead, Brienne’s mouth simply firms into a tense line. It’s all just so baffling. “_You_ want to sleep with _me_?” 

“No,” she says quietly, her entire face tensing with something that’s at least close to humiliation if not all the way there.

It’s also even _more_ confusing. 

“You_ don’t _want to sleep with me?” His brows draw together. “But you--”

“It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.” The look in her eyes is almost pleading. He half expects her to clutch her hands in front of her chest.

There’s only one thing for it. He’s too afraid that whatever this is will hang between them if they don’t address it. 

“You asked me for a favor.” He braces himself on his elbows, looking her directly in the eye, keeping his expression as neutral as possible in hopes of dispelling some of the awkwardness. “And that favor was for me to sleep with you.”

“Yes,” she answers, her expression utterly miserable.

Brienne is--Brienne is his favorite co-worker, though that might surprise some. Technically, she’s his employee, but she hasn’t felt that way in years. She’s the only person aside from Addam Marbrand that’s willing to absolutely tear him to shreds. But he’s never once… There have been people he’s worked with over the years, men and women alike, that have flirted, or simpered, or even outright asked him out. But she’s not like that. The idea of her wanting to _sleep _with him is _baffling_. That’s when something about the way she phrased it strikes him as slightly _odd_.

“In that case, I have questions.” He holds up one finger. “Question one: why would us sleeping together be a favor to you?” He holds up a second finger. “Questions two: why would you ask _me_ to sleep with _you_ rather than saying _we_ should sleep together?”

Brienne waits a beat, likely to make certain he’s finished his questions. 

“Because I’m a virgin.” She says it bluntly, as if challenging him to laugh at her or mock her. 

Whatever he expected her to say (because she’s horny; it’ll help them focus; it’ll help her sleep), it wasn’t_ that_. Brienne isn’t exactly a typical woman. She’s quite tall, not very curvy, she doesn’t put a lot of effort into making herself look more feminine, but she’s not--she’s _determined_ and dedicated and smart and ridiculously idealistic for someone in the legal profession, particularly trial law. The idea that she’s still a virgin is ludicrous.

“Why me?” he asks. It’s the only thing he can think to say. It’s...flattering, but baffling that she would choose her _boss_, who she seemingly barely tolerates half the time.

“Because I know you,” she says simply.

That stings a little. “Thanks.”

She grunts, a familiar sound of her being annoyed with him. “Because I’m tired of being the thirty-year-old virgin. I don’t want to think about how to tell someone I date that no one wanted to fuck me before. It’s just this albatross around my neck. I’m Brienne the Virgin and it’s become … it’s humiliating.”

It’s not pity he feels, not exactly. But he is...sad for her. For the idea that no one has seen all that she is, that no one had the sense to see all that she is. 

“But why _me_?” he asks, needing to know if he’s only a convenience, if he’s truly the only man she can think of and the default. “I can’t be the only man you know.”

“I’m pretty sure you won’t go around telling everyone that you did the ugly, pathetic woman at work a favor,” she says with a hint of bitterness. “You’ll be _nice_ about, you know,” she waves a hand in the air, “about my inexperience.” She blushes furiously. “And you aren’t awful to look at.”

He can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. For the first time all night, she sounds like the Brienne he knows so well. Blunt and sarcastic, and resolute in making sure he doesn’t get his ego stroked too much, if at all.

“I know the same can’t really be said about me, but there are ways around that, maybe,” she continues. Jaime stops laughing abruptly. “If you can’t, obviously, I understand,” Brienne continues, stammering a bit. “I know you have to be a little attracted to the other person in order to -- to perform. So, it’s okay if you --”

Jaime realizes in a lightning bolt moment that she thinks he couldn’t _get it up for her_. That she’s so unattractive no one would ever _want_ to fuck her of their own free will, and it’s so patently _incorrect_ that he finds himself saying, “Okay,” before she even finishes the sentiment.

“O-okay?” she asks, seemingly startled.

“Yes, I will sleep with you.” 

“You will?”

_Oh, for the love of the Seven_.

“Do I need to sign something?” he asks facetiously. 

“Oh,” Brienne looks down at the papers spread across the table in front of her. “We could -- I could draw something up…” 

Jaime can’t even let her finish the sentence before the laughter bursts out of him again. When he sees how furiously she blushes, he gently says, “Take a breath.” He’s tempted to reach across the table and rest a comforting hand on top of hers, but he doesn’t want to startle her. “As long as you’re sure you want it to be me, we don’t need to make it more complicated.” 

“Of course.” She nods vigorously. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warns her. It’s...been a while. “Thank me after I do a good job.”

She breathes out, heavy enough that he can see her chest deflate. 

“Are you --” he watches as her throat tightens as she swallows “-- are you free tomorrow? I know it’s a Friday night, but --”

“I’m free,” he says firmly, not giving either of them time to panic. “My place or yours?”

She blinks and he can practically see her mind whirring, sorting the options into neat mental pro/con lists before she finally says, “Your place. Eight o’clock?”

“Sure.” He can resist the urge to reach out to her then, wrapping his hand around her forearm and squeezing lightly. “You trust me, right? It’ll be fun. Good, even.”

He smiles at her, and somehow that seems to make her more nervous for a moment before her face smoothes out enough that she gives him a soft smile.

\--

Jaime is puttering.

Jaime has never puttered before, not once in his life. He mindlessly wanders through the rooms, making sure everything is tidy and dusted and ready for Brienne. He checks the bedside table for condoms (and lube, just in case). He resists the urge to re-wash his linens. He takes a shower. He tries on four different shirts, everything from an oxford shirt to a tank, before finally settling on his favorite t-shirt and the most comfortable jeans he owns.

By the time he finally hears the knock at his door, he’s all but worked himself into a lather. 

“Hi,” he greets her. 

She’s wearing a deep blue t-shirt that brings out the color of her eyes so that they’re almost breathtaking, and a pair of jeans that--well, he’s never seen anything that tightly formed to Brienne’s legs, and he has no reason for complaint.

“Hi,” she says, her hands are pressed to her thighs.

He moves aside so she can step through the doorway and then...then he just _hesitates_. He has no idea how to start. He’s never been with someone where the single, solitary goal is sex. He’s especially never been with a virgin where the single, solitary goal is sex. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks, desperate to break the silent tension. 

“No,” she says tightly. 

There’s nothing for it but to close the distance between them and figure out some way to _begin_. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she murmurs as he reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Isn’t that my line?” he asks, his stomach tightening in anticipation.

“I just mean if you don’t wa--”

He can’t let her finish the sentence, surging forward into the balls of his feet to kiss her. His lips land awkwardly, a bit too rough at first, and she stiffens in surprise. He doesn’t let himself pull away in embarrassment, instead he brushes his thumb along the line of her cheekbone and gentles the kiss, lightly caressing her lips with his own. 

All at once, she moans softly and melts into him, opening her mouth for his tongue to slide against her own. All of his worries were for naught, they move together just as fluidly as when they appear before a client. A team before anything else. He sets a hand against her hip and she jerks away, looking at him with startled eyes. He thinks he has two options, to retract and give her an out, and maybe let her believe he was the one looking for it; or, grip her with purpose. He chooses the latter, looking at her for confirmation, and when she nods her head, he kisses her desperately again.

He finally glides his hand along her side to cup her breast over her shirt, and realizes immediately she hasn’t worn a bra, her nipple tightening against his palm with nothing between them but the thin cotton of her shirt. He groans, his cock pressing insistently, uncomfortably against the front of his jeans. He jerks her to him, desperate to feel their bodies pressed tightly together. 

He breaks away from her lips only to trail soft kisses up the line of her jaw to her ear. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” 

She pauses for too long and Jaime pulls away to look her in the eye, ready to tell her she shouldn’t feel like she has to. This is for her and her alone. She nods. 

“If you aren’t sure--”

“I am,” she interrupts him, slightly frantic, but still sounding sure. “I am,” she says resolutely. 

He can’t help but smile. He takes her hand, tangling their fingers together and guides her with him down the hall to his bedroom. He watches as her eyes dart around the room, her body tightening with what he can only assume are nerves. He tugs on her hand and says, “Come here.”

She comes and he kisses her deeply, hungrily, hands dipping beneath her shirt to lift it over her head. She raises her arms to allow it. There’s so much milky skin on display, he almost doesn’t know where to start. Her strong shoulders, or that perfect expanse of skin across her collarbones. He follows the line with his fingertip before tracing a path to the curve of her breast. She closes her eyes, and he can’t resist the need to taste the perfect, pale pink nipple

Brienne actually squeaks when his lips close around the peak, his tongue circling the stiffened tip. He lifts a hand to rub circles with his thumb over her other nipple, her breast fitting his palm just so. He draws her with him further into the room. He needs to sit, and his bed seems as good a place as any, all things considered. 

When he’s sitting, he pulls away to gaze up at her. He waits for her to decide. He remembers when he lost his own virginity, in the blink of an eye in the back of a car. He remembers the overwhelming sensation and coming way too quickly for how uncomfortably small the backseat was. He doesn’t want that for Brienne. He wants this to be the best possible first time. The first time to put all other first times to shame. 

She leans down and kisses him, drawing his lower lip between her teeth as she pulls at the back of his shirt. He eagerly whips it off and throws it behind her, not caring where it lands. Her eyes rake his body, from his shoulders to his cock. She pauses there, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. He knows he can’t technically get any harder, but if he could…

He takes a chance and brings his hands together at the clasp of her jeans. She wraps her hands around his immediately, stopping the movement. He moves his hands, smiling up at her gently, ready to kiss her and send her home.

Before he has a chance, she sets her jaw, that stubborn, mulish expression he knows so well. She stares him in the eye as she unbuttons and unzips her jeans, shoving them down her legs. She squares her shoulders defiantly, and that’s when he lets himself _look_. 

_Gods,_ he wants to taste her. 

He looks her in the eye as he undoes his own jeans lifting his hips enough to take them off. He feels like every nerve-ending in his body is _dancing_. He pulls her to him against, drawing him into his lap, her legs on either side of him as she kneels on the bed. He kisses her, tasting her mouth, touching her warm skin. She sits against him firmly, and when she rolls her hips, he all but tosses her on the bed. He can only assume the sudden burst of both strength and dexterity is a gift from the gods. 

Jaime sucks a bruise into the flesh of her shoulders, drawing her soft skin between his teeth and simply savoring her. He finally, finally, _finally_ slips a hand between her thighs to find her wet. _“Fuck_,” he says against her breath, nipping the skin of her breast and yanking her underwear down her legs. They’re all elbows and knees for a moment, until finally, they’re both naked and he can press two of his fingers into her, his thumb circling her clit.

She feels so good, that he can’t help but groaning, “I can’t wait to be inside you,” not giving a fuck how much of a cliche it is. 

She writhes against him, her breath hitching as she says, “I want you.” She _groans_, guttural and unselfconscious in her desire. “I want to _know_.” 

Jaime pushes himself into a kneeling position between her legs. She makes no move to cover herself, nor does she show any signs of anxiety. He takes a moment to look at her, at the grace of her limbs and the beauty of her, all of _her_. He leans over her to grab a condom out of the drawer, rolling it over his cock with all of the confidence he can project, even if he feels like he’s going to jump out of his skin from the need to be inside. 

He kisses her gently again, cups her face and does his best to soothe any lingering anxiety. When she relaxes completely again, pliant and soft beneath his touch, he guides his cock to her entrance. He slides into her in one thrust, not giving her a chance to tighten from the newness of the feeling. She sucks in a breath and freezes, arms holding him tightly. He places soft kisses over all of the flesh he can reach, and reminds himself over and over to be patient. 

The feel of her surrounding him makes it difficult. She’s warm and wet, her body holding him like a vise until all at once she tilts her hips to draw him in even deeper. He moans so deeply it seems to vibrate through his entire body, shaking his very bones. 

It’s overwhelming. It’s been a while, but surely it’s never been this good. Her impossibly long legs wrap around him, her strong arms holding onto him as he moves within her, slowly at first, but unable to keep the pace gentle the deeper her groans become. She moves with him, her hips rising to meet each of his thrusts as she pants against his neck, biting mindlessly at his shoulder as she grunts when he pushes harder. 

He comes with a shaking groan, his whole body trembling. He’s nearly incoherent for a moment, the pleasure eclipsing all else. When he finally comes back to himself, he knows she hasn’t come yet. And that, _that_ is unacceptable. 

He slips out of her, already missing the hot embrace of her walls around his sensitive cock. He kisses his way down her body, knowing there’s one other thing he has to introduce her to before all is said and done. He presses her thighs wider so that his shoulders can fit between them comfortably. She’s flushed pink and so, so wet. The smell of her makes him long for his teenage years and the lightning-fast refractory period. But this is enough. He lifts his eyes to her face, finding her slightly confused and wondering. He gives her what he knows his a devilish smile before placing his mouth against her.

He licks her in long stripes, savoring the musky taste of her arousal as he tastes a path from her opening to her clit, circling his destination with the tip of his tongue. He flicks and circles and licks, presses his fingers into her still-tender opening as he sucks, raking her clit across his teeth.

She comes with a near-scream, her walls clenching his fingers as if to keep him there, her thighs clamping around his head as she trembles and presses against his mouth.

He withdraws only far enough to rest his forehead against her quivering inner-thigh, panting, and wondering how he’s going to work with her without reliving this night every single time he sees her.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene 1 of Chapter 7 of _We Make the Rules_ from Jaime's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When your beta asks for the blowjob from Jaime's POV, your hardworking, tireless beta gets the blowjob from Jaime's POV.

Brienne has spent many nights at his place, so the sight of her standing at his bathroom counter shouldn’t make his stomach tighten the way it does. Maybe it was the sight of her on his doorstep with her suit slung over her shoulder, or peeking in to see her setting out her toiletries on the bare second sink. It could be the simple notion that they’ll both have to set alarms, that he’ll have to let her leave the bed first to get ready for work. 

If he thought eating breakfast with her was intimate, this is at a level that makes him want to ask her to never leave. It’s a crazy thought, one he pushes to the back of his mind immediately, but it’s there, an aggravating whisper of want and need forever prickling him. 

He can’t resist anymore when he walks past the bathroom again to find her standing in front of the mirror, seemingly frozen in one spot. He steps up behind her, wrapping his arms around her, pressing against her back and placing a soft kiss to the juncture where her shoulder meets her neck. Even just the feel of her, strong and warm and real, has his cock responding like he’s a much younger man than he is. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“For what?” 

There are a hundred things he would thank her for, all of them increasingly revealing. He settles on, “For saying yes.” It at least gets close to capturing everything that swells in his chest every time he wakes up to her face as the first thing he sees. He can’t resist pulling her in, increasingly desperate to be insider her again. “Should I show you how great it can be now?”

“I want to try something,” Brienne says quickly, a touch of anxiety in her expression. His curiosity is piqued, to say the least. 

He lets go of her waist and takes a small step away from her. She turns to face him and he can see she’s working up the courage to do _something_, he just can’t imagine what. When she grabs his shoulders and turns them so he’s braced against the counter, he’s even more confused. Then she kneels, and for one horrifying second, he’s afraid he’s going to come in his pants for the first time in roughly thirty years. 

“Brienne--” he says, his voice just as tight as every muscle in his body. 

“You go down on me every time,” she interrupts, a touch breathlessly. “I--I want to know what it’s like.” The faint anxiety deepens, her eyes murky with worry. “Unless you don’t--”

“Gods, no,” Jaime says, cupping her cheek in his hand, the desire to draw her back to her feet so he can kiss the worry away at war with how much his body wants what she’s offering. “Of course I want you to.”

She turns to place a kiss against his palm, and even just that quick press of her lips zings through his veins. She pulls his boxers down his legs and wraps her hand around him in a familiar embrace. Much less familiar is the slick feeling of her tongue along the length of his cock. “Oh _fuck_,” he says, gripping the counter for dear life. He has to look away from her, just the sight of her full lips wrapped around him makes his stomach tighten with the impending climax. 

She’s unpracticed. Her inexperience, the fact that she’s learning all of the ways to bring both herself and someone else pleasure with him, has never been _the_ source of arousal. He’s not one to take some strange, unnerving pleasure in taking her virginity in every way possible. It rarely crosses his mind anymore, how this all began. She knows him so well, nearly all of his particular buttons, and he knows hers.

She may not know the exact things that make his mind white-out, but the mere fact that it’s _Brienne’s_ mouth surrounding him, sucking and licking with enthusiasm and curiosity and a single-minded intent on bringing him pleasure--it wouldn’t matter how skilled she is, all that matters is that it’s _her_. 

When she pulls away suddenly, he looks down at her, concerned for her above all else. Instead, she looks at him guileless and earnest and says, “Touch me.” 

He brushes his knuckles across her flushed cheek, and hesitantly cups the back of her head, running his fingers through her hair. She stares him directly in the eye, hers wide, the inky black of her pupils slowly consuming the blue. She wraps her lips around his cock again, their eyes still connected and the sound, like a man dying, tears from his chest helplessly. 

She closes her eyes again, thank the gods, and he clenches his own shut, desperately trying to keep his ass against the counter, refusing to give in to the urge to thrust into her mouth. He’s getting closer, his moans loud and unrestrained, but it’s the sound and feel of her own moan that has him taking her hand from his cock and drawing her to her feet. 

“Don’t want to come in your mouth,” he murmurs. It’s both selfish and selfless, he wants to be inside more than just her mouth before this is all over, and he doesn’t want to startle her and end up coming on her face. 

He kisses her swollen lips hungrily, turning them so she’s once more against the counter. She opens her thighs to him and when he slides into the welcoming, consuming heat of her, it’s _more_. It’s all more somehow. He doesn’t know how it can keep getting better. Maybe it’s his lack of experience with not having the barrier of a condom. Maybe it’s that they learn each other a little better every time.

Maybe it’s that deep down, almost fearfully, he thinks he may burst from the number of things he wishes he could say to her. 

He holds her close, only really grinding against her rather than truly moving, but she curls her legs and arms around him, sighing and moaning softly, contentedly. That’s motivation enough to slip his hand between their bodies until he can slide his fingertips through the wetness he finds and circles her clit exactly the way she likes best. He has no interest in drawing out the inevitable. He just wants to feel her clench around him, hear her frantic moans culminate in a near-scream. 

The moment he feels her body clutch him, tightly enough it feels like it’s refusing to let go, her voice crying out in his ear, her teeth biting into his shoulder, he comes apart. 

He holds her so tightly that he’s worried it may hurt her, but he can’t bring himself to loosen his grip. When his breath calms enough that he can think clearly again, he leans back, tilting her chin up. She’s flushed and beautiful and if he allowed himself, he’s worried he would label the suffocating feeling in his chest love. 

“You’re amazing,” he says instead and kisses her with a heaviness he hopes conveys even a fraction of what he feels.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr prompt: MASHUP: Vacation Fic, I Didn't Mean To Turn You On 💖
> 
> \-- 
> 
> DUNNO WHAT THIS IS. Sat down and tried to get words out to attempt to keep up with enough words a day that I can pretend I'm doing NANO. Got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd tumblr fic, etc.

It’s Tyrion’s fault, really. 

Jaime insists for _weeks_ that he doesn’t have time for a frivolous tour around a backwoods island. Jaime has _responsibilities_. Meetings! Conferences! Deadlines! Just because he chose (okay, was pressured into) work in a corporate setting while his younger brother breezes around as an art curator for The King’s Landing Museum of Fine Art doesn’t mean that everyone can book a vacation to a remote island and pretend it’s a business trip. 

Still, somehow, Jaime finds himself staring out at Shipbreaker Bay, licking the salt off his lips and breathing in clean, grass-scented air. 

It is relaxing in a way that he hasn’t experienced since the summer before University. 

He’ll never tell Tyrion this. Luckily, it took Tyrion all of a quarter-of-an-hour to find the local spots with pretty women and high percentage alcohol, so Jaime is left to his own devices (though, not to his devices, since Tarth has apparently chosen to forego proper mobile reception). 

He wanders down the cliffs far enough that he can kick off his shoes and sink his toes into the sand when he sees the surfer; tall, muscular body ensconced in black spandex, blonde hair plastered to their head, skin the sort of pale that can only be accomplished in a locale allergic to proper sunlight. They’re talented though, muscles tightening beneath the wetsuit, body making minute shifts to stay balanced as they’re carried on a wave to the shore. 

Jaime watches them for--well, he has no idea how long he watches them, only that he doesn’t move from his position until the surfer finally bends over to undo the cuff around their ankle. It startles him, _deeply_, that the sight of the surfer’s firm ass stirs something in the crotch region of his body. A something that gets all the more unavoidable as he finds himself magnetically drawn to them and realizes just exactly how long and lithe their legs are. 

Then the surfer turns around faces him. The surfer is for sure a woman but probably taller than him, and definitely not as finely wrought, but she has a mouth that inspires the filthiest of thoughts, and so many freckles that the only possible reaction is wanting to know _where_ they end, _if_ they end. Jaime Lannister: Professional Adult finds himself plopping gracelessly on the sand and throwing his jacket over his lap, lest the strangely intoxicating stranger notices his problem. 

Inanely, he lifts his hand and waves. She quirks an eyebrow, doesn’t wave, but does stomp toward him as if--

“Who are you?” she asks, rather _harshly_ in Jaime’s opinion.

“Uh…”

“This is private property,” she says curtly, holding her board in front of her like a shield. 

He doesn’t know why. She could beat him bloody senseless with those muscles and that as a weapon. Maybe without a weapon. And he’s not sure he would put up much of a fight anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, genuinely. “I didn’t see any signs.”

She seems to be pulled up short by that. “Well, it is. I would appreciate it if you would go.”

“Uh,” Jaime looks at the jacket in his lap, then up at her again, and then over her shoulder, and then at the sky. He’s not sure if he should be a little more ashamed at the fact that her being rude to him has made his dick even harder, but it has. “I might need a minute.”

“I just told you this was private property.” 

She looks _infuriated_, flushed face and heavy chest and white-knuckled grip on her board and _fuck_. Jaime hasn’t come in his pants since he was fourteen-years-old and he had a particularly intense wet dream about The Blue Knight of yore. 

“I can’t move right now,” he says, hands fisting so that his blunt nails cut into his palms as a distraction. 

“Are you injured?” 

“Not exactly--”

“For Seven’s sake.” She rolls her eyes. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I’m hard,” he says breezily, refusing to show his mortification. 

“You’re--” she stops speaking, her mouth going slack as if she realized when she was already forming the sentence what he’d said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m _hard_,” he repeats, a tight smile on his face. “You know, erect, engorged, tumescent. I have a boner.”

“I know what you meant,” she says sharply. The blush spreads down her neck and disappears beneath the high neck of the wetsuit. 

“Well, you asked.”

“Sorry, I’m not accustomed to stumbling upon strange men on my beach only to be told they’re _aroused_.”

Her voice is husky enough that even just her _saying_ “aroused” makes him whimper slightly.

“It’s not my fault.”

“Oh? Then whose fault is it?”

“Yours!”

“Mine!?”

“Yes! With your,” Jaime gestures up and down her body, “your you!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to turn you on with my me-ness.”

“This isn’t helping!”

She blinks at him, her enormous blue eyes fluttering like a fucking fairytale princess. “What isn’t helping?” she asks more mildly.

“You yelling at me,” he retorts, his own cheeks flushing. 

“Me yelling at you is making you harder?” she sounds flummoxed, flabbergasted.

“_Yes_,” he grits out, shifting uncomfortably in the sand. 

Her lips purse, which he also hates. 

“Would it help if I spoke softly?” she asks, her voice having dropped until it seems to entwine with the breeze itself. 

“I think you may just have to leave before I embarrass myself.”

“You’re not embarrassed already?” Her lips tilt into a smile and, if he’s not very mistaken, her eyes are sparkling in amusement.

“Not the point,” he says. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Bizarrely, she plops down next to him, knees pulled up in front of her so she can rest her forearms atop them. 

“You must be from out of town,” she says calmly, eyes trained on the breaking waves. 

“How’d you guess?” he asks sarcastically, following her gaze. 

“I don’t recognize you.” He lifts an eyebrow at her statement. “This is my island,” she explains. “Well, it’s my family’s island. I’m Brienne _Tarth_.”

“Oh.” He’s just yelled at and gotten a boner in front of a Tarth family member. “I’m Jaime. Lannister. Jaime Lannister.” 

She snorts, but it’s not cruel. “I_ am_ sorry you’re so hard-up all it took was the sight of _me_ in a wetsuit to get you going.”

“You have very long legs,” he says inanely.

“That would be because I’m a good bit taller than six foot.”

“They’re also very fit.”

“I surf a lot,” she says easily. “And I run. And do a fair bit of hiking around the island.”

Jaime, being the dumbass he is, immediately says, “I’d love to see some of it.” 

“Is that a hint?” she asks, and he can’t tell if she’s amused or offended or skeptical or astonished. He must have some look on his face, because she laughs softly. “Where are you staying?”

“The Evenfall.” 

She nods. “I’ll come get you at noon tomorrow.” She shoves herself to her feet and, gods, brushes some of the sand off of her ass. “Wear comfortable shoes and try not to get too aroused by the sight of me in hiking gear.”

He swallows, his mouth dry at the very thought of it. “I was always told to never make a promise I can’t keep.”

Her laugh as she walks away is loud enough for him to hear it long after he loses sight of her. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's weird y'all.
> 
> \--
> 
> Bookshop + Dystopian or Postapocalyptic AU

Jaime looks up from his squatted position to see..._her_. 

“Brienne,” he says, near silently. 

She looks as if she’s seen a ghost, and in some ways, she has. He feels frozen in place by her gaze.

The first words out of her mouth are, “Your sister?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Dead.”

She makes a sound of acknowledgment in the back of her throat. “The child?”

“Never was.”

Silence. 

“How?” he finally asks.

“Bran.”

“Ah.”

“Did you think you could hide away and no one would know?”

“I thought--” he pauses and stares at her and hates himself and the world and what it’s done to them all. “I thought it best.”

“Best for _whom_?”

“What good would come of me showing my face again?” 

He stands and brushes as much dirt and dust from his hands as possible. She tenses even more if possible.

“You thought it better if I believed you to be dead?” 

“Perhaps not better, but easier.” Her face seems to waver between devastation and fury and everything in between but never touching the softness he once felt from her. “Would it help to punch me?” he offers with a weak smile. 

She flinches as if he punched her. 

“No,” she says quietly. “It would not.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. He means it more than he’s meant anything before.

She nods curtly, not meeting his gaze. 

He braces himself. 

She says, “Will you come back with me?”

“To my death?”

Her eyes dart to his startled. “No. Why...why would I come here for _that_?”

“Would anyone blame you? Would _I_ blame you?”

“I would blame _myself._”

Gods, but he’s missed that level of goodness in this world.

“What would I be coming back to?”

She takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. “Not much. The Kingdoms have not accepted a boy who disappeared beyond The Wall and reappeared distant and cold as their leader.” 

“Shocking.”

She glares at him and for a moment he lets himself pretend the heat in her gaze is more than just anger. 

“The Kingdoms are divided once more. Sansa in the North is refusing to involve herself, even in the affairs of her brother. The Westerlands feel Tyrion betrayed them, but the nearest leader they have is House Marbrand. The Reach is in even worse shape. The Tullys are attempting to usurp, but the rest of Westeros thinks they’re simply a mouthpiece for the North and King Brandon Stark.”

“And you ask me to come back? To what purpose?”

“To no purpose. Gods, Jaime.” She squeezes her hands together into angry fists. “I’m asking you to come back for _me_.”

His heart stops. 

“For you?”

“Yes.” Her chin trembles as she says, “If you can bear to part from the life you’ve built here.”

He hesitantly steps toward her and when she doesn’t back away, he closes in so that he can set the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “What are dusty old books and customers when compared to sapphires and steel?” 

He still can’t quite believe it when she doesn’t disappear as his lips touch hers, but when she whimpers and jerks him in by the front of his tunic his whole body sings with the familiar relief of her strength and love.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings:  
1) Brienne is clearly inexperienced in this;  
2) Jaime is clearly in a position of power over her;  
3) imagine a much kinkier, much dirtier, much less sanitized version of Jaime being Brienne’s boss.
> 
> However the intent is that they are both fully grown adults and that consent is freely given, they’re just in a fraught position 
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯?

“Brienne,” he says, his voice low and trembling like her thighs, “where are your hands now?” 

Breathlessly, she tells him, “I’m holding the phone with one and the other —“ her fingers flutter at the waist of her shorts. “The other one is on my stomach.” 

“Truly?”

She can practically see the arch of his eyebrow and the skeptical slant of his mouth. 

“Yes, truly.” 

“Is that where you want it?” His voice rolls around the question like molasses. 

“I—“ Brienne can barely take a deep breath. She can’t believe it’s him asking her something that makes her ache so deeply, or that this time it feels like it’s not by accident. 

“Where do you need to be touched?” he asks her gently and she has to bite her lip to keep from making a pathetic mewling noise. 

“Everywhere,” she manages in a choked voice. 

“You’ll have to pick one place at a time.” She hears a rustle and creak through the line and lets herself believe he’s just as knotted up, that he’s squirming on his own bed, that she isn’t just a pathetic virgin too nervous to say where her body is hot and needy. “Isn’t there at least one place you need it most, somewhere that nearly aches for it?” 

“My—“ but she still can’t say it, can’t make her unpracticed mouth form the words she’s only heard from crude boys and the one porno she tried to watch before chickening out. 

“If you can’t tell me where, I’m afraid I can’t help you with the solution.” 

She doesn’t understand it, but somehow he sounds both comforting and dangerous all at once. She lets her fingertips slip just inside the elastic band of her shorts and underwear. 

“Mr. Lannister,” she nearly pleads with him, her whole body flushed with want and mortification. 

“Don’t . . .” Her heart stops at the harsh tone but when he speaks again, it’s calm again. “Call me Jaime when — don’t call me Mr. Lannister when you’re wet for me.”

“I can’t call you—“ she nearly stutters but manages to say, “Jaime at the office.” 

He does groan then, a quiet, rumbling thing she swears she can feel in the damp place between her thighs. 

“Where do you need to be touched, Brienne?” This time when he asks, his voice is tight and strained. 

“My—my cunt,” she manages, squeezing her eyes shut, her voice barely above a whisper, a hot rush of embarrassment and … and desire blazing through her. 

“Fuck.” She hears more rustling and a sound like a lock turning. She wonders where he is, wonders why she didn’t think to ask. Her heart pounds in her ears when he finally asks, “Are you alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can anyone see in your windows?”

“N-no,” she says, her curtains and blinds are both closed and Sansa is at work for hours. 

“Good.” She hears what sounds like — like a zipper, and thinks her heart may actually pound out of chest just like the cliches say. “Take off your underwear, Brienne.” 

She gasps. It’s silly, but just the idea of -- she knows he’s thinking about her -- her cunt, but somehow the idea of him  _ knowing _ she’s undressing, that she’ll be naked makes every inch of her skin tingle. She lifts up her hips just enough to shove her shorts and underwear down with one hand, but then she doesn’t know what to do so she places her free hand on the bed beside her and waits.

“Brienne?” She jumps at the sound of Mr. -- of Jaime. “Did you take them off?”

“Yes,” she says, cursing her breathy, trembling voice. 

“Where is your hand now?” 

“On the bed.” She curls her fingers into the blue fabric of her duvet, rubbing the cotton between her fingertips. 

“I want you to do what I tell you to, okay?” Jaime sounds different, like he does when they stretch after through their cool down, frayed but not quite breathless. 

“Okay.” 

“Good.” He clears his throat and she can picture him in her mind, the sleeves of his button down rolled up nearly to his elbows, his slightly-too-long hair falling over his forehead. “Do you wax?”

For a second, she’s confused and then in a rush of embarrassment nearly shouts, “No!” 

“Shave?” he asks calmly, not reacting to her vehemence. 

She knows she’s red from her hairline to the tips of her toes as she shakes her head before remembering he, obviously, can’t see her. “No.”

“Touch the hair.”

“Wha --” she starts to protest, but he interrupts her.

“You said you would do as I told you.” His tone isn’t harsh, but it is … firm. “Touch your hair and tell me what it’s like.”

“It’s hair,” she says, frustrated and confused, her body crying out for something solid and not -- not whatever this is.

“I can’t see you,” he explains patiently, “so you have to help me picture you. How else will I know how to help?”

It doesn’t occur to her until that moment that he might -- that Jaime might  _ want _ to picture  _ her _ . Awkward, gangly, knees-and-elbows-and-big-teeth Brienne instead of some actress or model or someone he’s -- that he’s  _ been _ with. 

She glances down her own body, past the soft pale skin of her stomach, to the thatch of hair between her thighs. 

“It’s soft,” she whispers, biting her lip but forcing herself to continue. “It’s kind of curly, but it’s still soft.” 

When she pauses, he asks, “Is it blonde?”

“Uh, it’s kind of -- almost -- it’s a little bit red,” she stammers. 

He hmms. “Are you already wet, Brienne?” 

She nearly chokes. “Yes.” 

“Have you ever made yourself come?”

“Mr. -- Jaime,” Brienne protests. 

“Have you?”

“Yes,” she says on a sigh, squeezing her thighs together. 

“I want you to make yourself come,” he tells her and she can’t stop the soft squeak those words pull from her. “And I want you to tell me exactly what you’re doing, so that I know for --” He stops himself and her stomach swoops like she’s on a roller coaster. “So that I know.” 

Brienne’s heart thumps so fast and so hard she feels nearly light-headed. “I don’t know how …” 

“How would you start if you weren’t talking to me?” His voice rumbles through her, and she closes her eyes, wondering if it would be better or worse if he were there, if she were to imagine he was there. 

“I guess -- I guess I would,” she squeezes her eyes tighter and lets her fingers drift through the wet curls over her slit, “I usually make sure that -- I get my fingers wet first.”

“Do you push your fingers inside?” 

Brienne’s mouth goes dry. She has no idea how she’ll get through this. 

“Not yet,” she says quietly. “I just touch and then slide my fingers to -- and -- I …”

“Are you trying to say you touch your clit, Brienne?” 

She breaks then, finally whimpering into the phone, her hips rolling, begging her hand for a firmer touch. “Yes.” 

“ _ How _ do you touch your clit?” 

“I don’t know.” She groans, frustrated. “I’ve never thought about how.”

“Then touch yourself now and tell me exactly what you’re doing.” His tone brooks no argument, the walls of her cunt clenching at the sound of it. 

It’s nearly impossible at first, the sensation of fingertips over wet, hot skin almost muted with the weight of uncertainty. Not uncertainty over whether or not she wants to do this, but whether or not she has the words for it, or can say them aloud.

“I use two fingers at first,” she says, barely above a whisper, sliding her index and middle fingers on either side of her clit. “Just up and down at first until -- until it starts to . . . tingle?” 

He doesn’t respond, but she hears him hum quietly. She goes silent, trying to fall into the slick feeling and building tightness. She’s just relaxing when his voice startles her, “Brienne.” 

She gasps, her hips bucking against her touch, a tiny squeak popping out of her mouth before she can stop it.    
  


“You stopped talking,” he says. “Did you stop touching yourself?”   
  


“No.” She presses her hand flat against her clit as it throbs in time with the sound of his words. “I was doing the same thing until --”

“Until it  _ tingles _ ,” his voice wraps around the words in a way that she can nearly feel them against her skin. 

“Yes.” She strokes herself again, biting her lip against a moan. 

“It doesn’t sound like you’re enjoying yourself very much. You’re very quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” Brienne explains in a choked voice. 

“Even when you’re alone?” He sounds skeptical. 

“Yes. It’s embarrassing.” 

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, gently. “Do you have any idea how good it feels to know how turned on you are? Let me hear it. Make it good for me, too.”

“Oh, gods,” her voice trembles, but she rolls her clit beneath her fingertips faster, letting her breath come in noisy pants. “I’m making circles with one finger now.” 

“Good girl.” 

She can barely hear his low voice over the whimpering from her own throat, and the pounding of her heart. But when he says, “Can you do something for  _ me _ ?” she manages to moan out a  _ yes _ . 

“Fuck yourself with your fingers.”

The words shoot through her like lightning, coiling low and hot in her stomach. But she does as he asks, and slides two inside, curling them and pressing the heel of her palm against her throbbing clit. 

“Are you doing it, Brienne?”

“Yes,” she says, continuing to thrust her fingers into herself, frantically. 

“Now put your thumb against your clit,” he tells her, his own voice starting to sound tight. “You can touch yourself however you like, circling or just sliding back and forth. Whatever it takes to make you come.”

“Okay.” She thumbs at her clit, learning the rhythm of her fingers moving in and out with the same speed.

She can feel herself climb higher, closer to that precipice, no longer aware of the whimpering and moaning as she reaches desperately for that breaking point. 

“You’re doing so well,” she hears him say distantly. 

But even that quiet, barely intelligible reassurance has her coming, groaning  _ Jaime _ as the walls of her pussy clench around her fingers, her thumb stuttering against her overly sensitive clit. She keens, maybe she screams, she has no idea, pulled in by the shock of sensation as it strikes her over and over, her hips bucking up in sharp bursts.

Then she hears Jaime groan through the phone, an unmistakable sound of sex and she realizes in another rush of unimaginable satisfaction that she isn’t alone in her pleasure. 

She lies there panting on her bed, her hand coated in her own wetness, trembling with the aftershock of an orgasm that eclipses anything she thought possible. 

“Jaime,” she breathes into the phone.

“I --” his voice is gravelled like he’s been screaming as he stops himself. “You did well.”

It shouldn’t be sexy that he’s all but giving her a performance review, that it’s the exact same wording he uses when they’ve pushed each other to the limit in a run. But it is sexy, so sexy she squirms, already wanting to chase the high again.

He mumbles, “I have to go now.” 

She tries not to panic, and mostly fails as she says, “Okay.” She hesitates, feeling stupid before finishing with, “Thank you.”

She practically hear him swallow before he tells her goodbye and ends their call. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I suppose, fair warning, this was part of a Professor!Jaime AU that never really took shape. It's also, technically, part of the phone sex 'verse. (I've waffled back and forth on their dynamic in this fic eight million times, so I doubt it'll ever take shape.)

Jaime didn’t even ask who was at the door, swinging it open to find Brienne standing there. He could tell she was nervous, the slight tremble in her lips as she smiled softly, the twitching of her hands at her sides. 

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice catching in his throat.

He stepped to the side opening the door wider, his eyes trailing up and down the long, long lines of her body. 

Jaime meant to take it slow. He had every intention of sitting down, telling her to change out of her dress while he took his suit off, talking with her about what happened at the gala, about how it couldn’t happen again. At least not until after graduation. He _promised_ himself he wouldn’t touch her before graduation. But the moment she turned to him after glancing around his apartment, so unsure, her impossibly blue eyes so scared of rejection, he knew he was fucked.

His mouth was on hers without conscious decision. He pulled her tight against him, the satin fabric of her dress doing nothing to prevent him from feeling the heat of her skin. She moaned and pressed herself against him, her mouth moving against his, unpracticed but enthusiastic. Her hands jumped around unsurely before settling on wrapping over his shoulders. 

The overwhelming feeling of rightness every time he was near her was so much more intense in this moment, like he’d been waiting his entire life for the press of her body, the taste of her, the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. She shivered when he licked at her bottom lip, opening her mouth to him, her tongue sliding along his.

Jaime tore his mouth away from hers. He rested his head on her collarbone, panting against the bare skin there. He felt her tense, waiting for him to pull away. He should.

“Did I do something wrong?” Brienne asked him, her voice shaking, her own breathing labored. 

“Gods, no,” Jaime said against her skin. He couldn’t stop himself from setting his mouth against the juncture where her neck met her shoulder. He listened as she took a shuddering breath. He kissed his way up the long column of her throat until he reached her ear, pulling the lobe between his teeth. She gasped, a sharp, “ah,” as she pulled him even closer, arching her back so that her small breasts pressed against him even more firmly.

“Jaime,” she said on a sigh, one of her hands sliding up his neck and into his hair. 

He would regret it in the morning, he knew. But he couldn’t resist the need to hear the noises she would make as he slid his hand up her ribcage until he cupped her breast, her nipple hardening against his palm. She jerked against him as if she didn’t know whether to pull away or ask for more. 

Jaime lifted his head to look her in the eye. Hers were wide, her pupils dilated and cheeks flushed. Her mouth was swollen, the skin around it reddened from his stubble. She already looked halfway to well and truly fucked. He stared her in the eye as his circled his thumb very deliberately on the stiff peak of her nipple. 

“Jaime,” she said, wonderingly. Her knees went weak when he plucked at the tip with his nail. He could feel her sag against him at the unexpected sensation. He backed her toward the couch, but waited for her to decide whether or not to take it further. She did, trailing her hands down his arms as she sat, gazing up at him with all the wonder of someone experiencing the touch of someone else for the first time. 

Jaime leaned down and kissed her again, cupping her heated cheeks. Brienne leaned back, pulling him with her so that he had little choice but to brace himself over her. She must have kicked her shoes off at some point because she trailed her foot along his calf, as he kissed her, her leg wrapping around his until his hips were in contact with her.

He was embarrassingly hard. He couldn’t resist rubbing against her thigh. She gasped sharply and he raised his head to see the startled expression in her eyes, her mouth parted in surprise. 

He stared at her as he rolled his hips again. She flushed even more, a small moan barely escaping her throat. 

Jaime leaned in and kissed her desperately, thrusting his tongue into her waiting mouth, sliding it along her own, trying to memorize the taste of her. Brienne plucked at the buttons of his shirt, undoing the first two so that she could rest a shaking hand against the heated skin of his chest. 

He slid his hand down her hip until he could feel the pale, cool skin of her astonishingly long leg where it was bared by the slit in her skirt. He trailed his hand from knee to thigh. She bucked her hips up against his own, and the press of her against his erection was enough that he grabbed the muscles of her thigh hard enough to leave bruises. 

Brienne gripped his arms just as tightly, moaning as she asked, “Please.” 

“Please what, Brienne?” Her name was thick and sweet on his tongue like honey. 

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, writhing beneath his hands as they touched her everywhere. Her rib cage and breasts, her hips, and down the goosepimpled skin of her arms. “Please just -- please.” 

She was desperate. He was just as desperate, like a teenage virgin himself, touching a girl for the first time and being so overwhelmed he couldn’t remember which way was up. 

He pulled himself up so he was resting on his knees between her spread legs. She looked like a blessing and a sin all in one. Her chest was flushed, heaving with breaths. Her eyes darted around his face, hands still clutching at him.

“Don’t go.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I’m not.”

Jaime slowly began to unbutton his shirt and he watched as her chest stilled with held breath, her eyes locked on the skin he revealed inch by slow inch. He took one of her hands from where it still held his arm and pressed her palm against where his heart beat heavy against his breast. He let go and she trailed it down, until she could trace her fingertips over the hard muscles of his stomach. His head fell back against his shoulders, and he stopped her before she could continue. 

He watched her, his face a question as he reached for the hem of her dress and slid it upward, giving her plenty of time to stop him. She didn’t and when he reached the tip of her thighs, she lifted her pelvis so he could push it up further. He stopped when it was around her waist, his eyes glued to her nude silky underwear. He couldn’t decide if he was more excited to slide them down, or wished they weren’t there at all. 

Brienne bit her lip as he brushed his thumb over the hard jut of her hip bone. Jaime leaned up, his hand still cupping her hip, and kissed her gently until he felt her relaxing again. She set her hands at his waist, fingernails biting into his skin as the kiss deepened again. She writhed up against him. With her dress rucked up around her waist she was free to wrap the leg tucked against the back of the couch around his own leg. 

He groaned when he felt the hot press of her cunt against his thigh. “Gods, Brienne.” 

She chanted his name over and over as she ground against him. He wanted to feel her, touch that needy place between her thighs. 

Jaime slid his hand from her hip to her inner thigh, stroking the tender skin there. He felt her tremble as he caressed higher. He pulled his mouth away from hers, his pulse hammered at the sight of her full red mouth and the stunned, aroused look in her eyes. “Okay?”

Brienne nodded vigorously, shifting to press herself closer to where his fingers had paused. “Yes.”

She sounded breathless and when he finally pressed his fingers against the damp fabric, she pulled in a sharp gasp that ended on a choked cry. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he said, placing a kiss on her temple and rubbing her through the panties. 

It took only a moment before she was grinding against his fingers. Jaime let the tip of his index finger skirt under the edge of her underwear, brushing against the damp curls. He felt her contract sharply from that touch alone, curling up until her knee was at his hip and her forehead against his shoulder. He murmured nonsensical comfort into her soft hair and slipped his fingers beneath her panties until they met with slick center of her. 

He slid his fingers between her lips, gliding his fingertips from her entrance to her clit. Brienne’s chant of his name became unintelligible and sharp, more squeaks and moans than words the longer he circled his fingers against her. She tilted her hips against his fingers. Her hands clutched at his hair, fingernails scratching his scalp. 

“More,” she choked out.

Jaime swallowed roughly and kissed her as he pressed two fingers into her. The walls of her clenched around his fingers, pulling him deeper into her as he set his thumb against her clit once again. She grunted in his ear, losing herself to the sensation enough to no longer be self-conscious or reserved. Her hips juddered against him, trying to match the rhythm of his fingers moving in and out of her, but the closer she got the more offbeat she became. 

He kissed her, sliding his tongue along hers, pulling her lower lip into his mouth and biting it. She moaned loudly, her head tilted back. He set his mouth against her neck, sucking where her pulse thrummed frantically against the thin skin, and then she came. Her cunt gripped him, the muscles fluttering and twitching, drawing his fingers in and keeping them there. 

It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. It eclipsed all other orgasms, either at his own hand, or ones given to other women. The feeling of knowing he was her first, that no one had ever had their fingers in her, had made her break apart until she lay panting and flushed beneath them. He thrust against her hip, claiming her mouth again as her body turned languid and satisfied. Brienne’s hand moved down his side until she could reach between them and palm his cock through his pants. 

He came before he could slow things down or warn her, shooting off in his pants like virgin getting his first taste of someone else’s hand on their dick. When he pulled back from the kiss, she was staring at him, her eyes like tidepools, wide and round and pulling him in. 

“Was that -- Did you?” she asked, breathless. 

He chuckled, couldn’t help it. “Yes.” He placed a soft kiss against her sweaty forehead. “I should send you the dry-cleaning bill,” he whispered, trailing kisses down the side of her face to her jaw line. 

They lay there, tangled up and sweaty. He hadn’t felt this level of relaxation in -- well, perhaps ever. She seemed content to rub against him like a kitten, her hands softly stroking over his arms and shoulders, down his neck and over his back, her leg curling around his still, keeping him close. 

Jaime started to nod off and made himself pull away. He brushed the hair away from her forehead. “You should get cleaned up. That’s a change of clothes, right?” He nodded to the tote she’d shown up with. 

“Yeah,” she said, still breathless, still gazing at him like he was a revelation. 

He smiled and kissed her gently. “Change out of your dress while I take care of --” he glanced down at their hips, “my situation. The bathroom is the door on the right in the hall.” 

Jaime levered himself off of her. She lay there on his couch, legs akimbo, still flushed and languid. He gaze traveled down to cunt, where the nude panties were translucent and clinging to the wet skin. She flushed a brilliant red that flowed down her cheeks and over her neck to settle rosy over her chest.

Jaime couldn’t bring himself to regret any of it, not yet. Not when the person he loved was looking at him like he hung the moon, and the distinctive musk of her pleasure lingered heavy in the air. Not even with his own underwear clinging to him, tacky and uncomfortable from his come. He watched her the entire time until he shut the door to his room behind him. 


	13. Pretty Princess Jaime Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaime is aggravatingly handsome; Brienne suffers because of it; and all he wants is to be scritched like a puppy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired to actually write this thanks to the FUCKING AMAZING fawnilu drawing FANART for this idea. I am STILL overwhelmed

Jaime’s one of those excessively beautiful people that thinks he can get anything he wants if he bats his eyelashes and pouts just a little. Or maybe he only does that with Brienne. There’s no way for her to be sure. All she knows is that every time they get together for a movie night at his house (he’s the one with the almost theater level media room), he ends up on the floor, shouldering his way between her knees and looking up with puppy-dog eyes. 

She always gives some show of sighing and pretending to resist until he actually asks with words, and then she ends up fingercombing his hair until it lies in soft waves around his shoulders and her knees. It’s fine, except that it’s a little torturous when she scratches his scalp and he moans happily. Sometimes he nuzzles her and it makes her want to die. 

But it’s fine.

So she’s a little in love with him. Duh. Jaime Lannister is far and away the most attractive boy at school, maybe in all of King’s Landing, maybe in the whole of Westeros and Essos combined. He’s so beautiful it seems like a trick. Which would be fine...if he wasn’t also legitimately kind and funny. 

She’s still not sure why they’re still friends. It made sense in third grade. They both ended up seeing grief counselors in the same office after their mothers died. The first day they were both in the waiting room, Jaime sat in the chair next to her and asked her name. She’s not sure how it happened, really, it seemed like Jaime just decided they were going to be best friends and so they were. 

That he didn’t pretend like he didn’t know her when they ended up at the same high school _still_ baffles Brienne daily. He’s popular, athletic and rich, really the whole package. She’s an introverted, ugly girl far removed from rich. 

Even being friends with Jaime doesn’t make her popular by association, but she figures it’s why she’s not bullied on a daily basis. The first week at Red Keep High, she was targeted by a couple of the sophomore cheerleaders. She doesn’t know exactly what happens, all she knows is that she saw Cersei Lannister talking to one of them with that cold, terrifying smile on her face and after that nearly _everyone_ avoided her. There’s no love lost between her and Cersei, so it must have been Jaime’s doing, even if he pastes a blank expression on his face and denies knowing anything about it. 

At any rate, most people ignore her except for her friends Pod and Sansa, and by extension Sansa’s friends Margaery and Jeyne, and Pod’s friends seem pretty cool. And Jaime, obviously. So high school could be way worse, and she only has to survive two more years before she can run far away for University. 

Though, she’ll kind of miss these movies nights with Jaime. Okay, she’ll really miss them. And not just because Jaime always has movie snacks ready by the time she shows up. Being with Jaime is just...the best. 

\--

Jaime is being _particularly_ needy. The minute her hand stops running through his hair, he grunts in protest. 

“Come on, Brienne,” he says pleadingly. “Just a little more? It feels good.”

She sighs, but relents, like she always does. Still, his hair is as detangled and soft as it’s going to get, so instead she gathers half of it in her hands, splits it into three strands and plaits it. The braid is uneven, the strands not quite equal, and the weave not neat, but his hair is curly enough that it stays together more or less. She does the same with the other half, trying to work a little more carefully. It only works a little better, her hands are large and unpracticed, but by the time she’s done, Jaime’s got braided pigtails trailing down his back. 

Brienne can’t quite hold back the snort of laughter at the sight. He tilts his head up and back, adorably confused and questioning. 

“Check your camera.” 

Jaime pulls out his phone and takes a look at himself. He smiles radiantly and gently flops one of the braids over his shoulder so he can get a good look at it. 

“This is awesome,” he says, sounding genuinely delighted. “I gotta take a picture for Tyrion.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes, but leans away from him again, slumping in the recliner. She takes a surreptitious picture of him from behind, capturing the back of his head and the braid still trailing down his back. She sends it to Sansa and Margaery, and Margaery immediately sends back a crying-while-laughing emoji. Sansa responds with a quick, _Hes never been prettier_. 

“Sansa says you’ve never been prettier,” she tells him. 

Jaime laughs, the one that makes his eyes twinkle, and makes her heart skip a beat. “What about you, Brie?” He flutters his eyelashes. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

She flushes and scowls at him to cover it. “You’re as pretty as you normally are.”

He narrows his eyes slightly as if trying to suss out what she means, _exactly_, by that. He grabs one of the braids and holds it out, tracing the pattern with his fingertip. “I like it.” 

Brienne rolls her eyes and knocks his shoulder with her knee, as hard as she can. 

“Ow.” He rubs his arm. 

“That didn’t hurt.”

“How would you know?” He shoves her knee with his shoulder. “You’ve got the strongest legs I’ve ever seen. You could kill a man with those things.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she grumbles. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tilts his head back until it’s resting on the seat. He smiles at her, a wicked little tilt to his lips. “I can imagine worse ways to go than suffocated between your thighs.” 

She flushes a beet red; she can _feel _how hot her face is. It’s definitely one of those blushes that colors her neck and chest with ugly blotches that look like hives. She needs him to stop _looking_ at her. She shoves his head to the side and uses her shin to push his chest off the chair. “Piss off.” 

He chuckles as he rolls to his feet. He should look ridiculous with his braided pigtails hanging over his shoulders like an elementary age girl, but of course, he doesn’t. He looks like a super handsome guy goofing off. He just grins down at her for a minute, seemingly taking pleasure in her mortification. 

“We should replenish the snack pile before we start the next movie,” he says. He holds out a hand to her, tugging her to her feet when she takes it. 

There’s a beat before he lets go of her hand, and it makes her heart thump for no reason whatsoever, except that the feel of his warm hand in hers makes her skin tingle with want. Stupid, traitorous body and heart. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is your favorite sex act?” Margaery reads from the slip of paper with a wicked smirk. 
> 
> “Eating a woman out,” Jaime answers without hesitation. 
> 
> Six pairs of eyes blink almost in unison. 
> 
> “What?” he asks, looking around at everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompts:  
63\. Everybody Knows/Mistaken for Couple and 88. Erotic Dreams & the girls slowly include Jaime in routine gatherings in an attempt to push him and Brienne together. Margaery drunkenly turns the discussion to more risque topics hoping to stir things up; Ygritte and Asha happily follow her lead. Jaime refrains from commenting, not wanting to seem like a creep but when pestered eventually relents, awkwardly glancing between B and his lap as he states he "uh... personally... uh... really likes [eating pussy]" with a faint blush
> 
> ...
> 
> I mostly fulfilled them.

“It’s called Truth or Shots,” Margaery announces.

“No,” Brienne says flatly. 

“Yes,” Margaery says with a smile that’s somehow sweet and dangerous all at once. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

“Come on, Brie,” Sansa cajoles. “Please?”

Brienne stares around the room at the faces of Margaery, Sansa, Asha, Ygritte, Arianne, and finally Jaime. Only Jaime looks sympathetic instead of excited. 

“You only have to drink if you don’t want to answer,” Ygritte says, an evil smirk curling her lips. “Do you have something you’re trying to hide?”

Brienne’s stomach turns, her mouth going dry with panic. She knows she’s taken too long to answer, and her voice is too choked when she finally says, “No.”

Ygritte smiles victoriously. 

Margaery’s rules dictate that in turn they draw a slip of paper from her Fishbowl of Doom and ask the person to their right whatever’s on the paper, Ygritte sits to Brienne’s left which is unnerving enough, but when Margaery plops down on Jaime’s left with a happy shoulder wriggle, Brienne can sense the impending doom. 

But then, mostly, it’s fine.

The questions run the gamut from, “Have you ever cried at a movie?” (Ygritte says no; Brienne has her doubts) to “What’s your biggest turn-on?” (Turns out, Arianne’s a bit of a voyeur to absolutely no one’s surprise.) Brienne’s simply happy that most of hers have been softball questions she answers without even considering drinking instead. 

She’s gotten too comfortable of course. 

“What is your favorite sex act?” Margaery reads from the slip of paper with a wicked smirk. 

“Eating a woman out,” Jaime answers without hesitation. 

Six pairs of eyes blink almost in unison. 

“What?” he asks, looking around at everyone. 

“Most men prefer it the other way ‘round,” Asha offers.

“Only interested in getting their dick wet,” Ygritte explains further.

“I’m not most men.” Jaime shrugs, unbothered. “If they don’t get off on the taste of a woman wet from their mouth alone, it’s their loss.”

Brienne can’t completely stop the wounded animal sound that gets caught in her chest. She presses her thighs together tightly and tries to quell the mental image of Jaime smirking up at her from between them, his lips puffy and slick from her pleasure.

She’s still trying to _not_ think about it when Ygritte draws from the bowl, snorts with laughter, and reads at a much higher volume than necessary, “What is your favorite sexual fantasy?”

Brienne freezes. Unbidden, her eyes lock on Jaime, taking in his stupid handsome awful face and thinking too hard about what his stubble would feel like against the tender skin of her inner-thighs and her--

She breaks eye contact, reaches for the shot glass on the table in front of her, downing the tequila in one burning gulp. She yanks the bowl out of Ygritte’s hands and asks Arianne without pause, “What is your worst habit?”

She resolutely does not look directly at Jaime again for the rest of the game.

\--

Jaime has two fingers buried in her, his mouth sucking bruises onto her breasts when Brienne startles awake. She breathes heavily for a moment and then turns and screams into her pillow. 

\--

She can’t seem to _stop_ thinking about it. Every time he licks his lips. Every time he smirks (it’s Jaime so...almost always). 

Currently, he has his lips wrapped around the mouth of a beer bottle, his throat working as he swallows. Then, as if torturing her in particular, he licks his mouth chasing any stray drops. She has to look away before he notices she can’t stop staring at his mouth.

She zones out, concentrating on breathing in and out, and tamping down on the craving heavy in her chest. 

She nearly jumps out of her skin when Jaime asks, “Are you okay?”

She whips her head up to stare at him, blinks twice and says, “Of course.”

“Really?” Jaime asks sarcastically. “Because Crakehall’s got a bone sticking out of his leg and a shocking amount of blood spilling onto the grass and you haven’t said anything.”

Brienne looks at the TV, which she only now realizes is muted, to see the camera carefully trained on Crakehall’s tortured expression as they carry him off the field on a stretcher. 

“Seriously, what’s _wrong_?”

There’s a dam inside Brienne, one she’s carefully constructed throughout her life, carefully stemming the flow of what she _wants_ versus what she knows she can _get_. She’s never once considered applying the word horny to herself, but she’s at the end of her rope, and no amount of her fingers or her vibrators has done anything to quieten the desire that _boils_ within her.

“I can’t stop thinking about your mouth,” she blurts out, her voice tense and angry. 

Jaime blinks, tilting his head in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Brienne grunts in frustration and has to look away from him. “What you said at the party...about how you...you know, what you like to do.”

“I really don’t,” Jaime starts to say, truly confused. 

“About how you like to--to go down on a woman,” she mumbles.

He doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours. Brienne can’t stand it and glances up at him warily. She doesn’t recognize his expression, his jaw clenched and a tightness around his eyes she can’t place.

“Are you asking for a demonstration?” he finally asks. 

Brienne can say no. She _should_ say no. And yet, what comes out of her mouth almost without her permission is a breathless, “Yes.”

She barely knows what’s happening when suddenly, she’s on her back on the couch, her legs tangled with his, his face closer to hers than it ever has been before. She thinks for a second he’s going to kiss her and --

He does, just not on the lips. He captures one of her earlobes between his teeth, flicking it with his tongue and sending a wave of pleasure right to Brienne’s cunt. If that small touch alone--Brienne may not survive this, but what a lovely way to burn. 

His hand cups one of her breasts, thumb stroking the nipple to a peak, until she’s writhing against him mindlessly. He smirks as he lifts away and sits on his heels, bringing both of his hands to the button of her jeans. Her pulse thumps rapidly as he undoes them. She lifts her hips to allow him to draw them down her legs. 

His eyes travel leisurely over her body, locking on her sensible, cotton underwear. He smiles, but it’s not the teasing smirk she’s seen so many times, it’s … well, it’s almost _fond_, she thinks.

It’s only when his fingers hook through the elastic waist that the panic starts to bubble in her chest. A million useless thoughts pop through her mind like fireworks going off. She hasn’t shaved or waxed; she doesn’t know what to do with her hands; she doesn’t know what he’s going to think of _her_; she doesn’t--

She’s so busy panicking, she’s not even paying attention to him throwing the underwear over his shoulder carelessly so he can eagerly position himself between her thighs. She grips the couch cushion, grimacing and waiting for some sharp-tongued commentary about--about _something_.

Instead, Jaime takes a deep breath through his nose and sighs happily. His fingers touch her first, thank the gods, but it still makes every muscle in her lower-half twitch with nerves. He lifts his other hand to massage her thigh, hard enough that it almost hurts, like he’s rubbing a muscle cramp instead of gentling a beast of a woman.

“I promise you’ll enjoy this,” he says quietly. She keeps her eyes trained on the ceiling, but when she feels the stubble on his cheeks scrape the sensitive skin between her legs, she nearly jerks off the couch. Jaime pauses, stilling all movements. “It might help if you watch me,” he says, voice thick like molasses. “Then you won’t be startled every time I touch you.”

Brienne swallows heavily, wonders if she’ll die from shock or mortification if she does, but he’s stopped moving his hands over her and that’s somehow worse. She turns her eyes toward him, and the sight of his golden hair cradled between the pale skin of her legs is the best and scariest thing she’s ever seen in equal measure. 

But he smiles, gently and calmly and warmly, and she knows it’s going to be at least okay. 

It’s more than okay. It’s more than brilliant. It’s...transcendent.

It takes Jaime thirty whole seconds before his tongue is doing such magnificent work that Brienne forgets to be nervous, forgets to worry, and just lets herself be carried away on a tide of pure pleasure.

She’s close to coming so quickly it’s annoying, she wants this to never end even as her body strains for release. She mindlessly curls her fingers in his hair, not caring if it hurts, and when he groans like a man dying and leans into her touch, sucking her clit heavily, she comes with a scream unable to keep from pressing his face to her cunt even more. 

Jaime moves up her body, smirking down at her like the cat that ate the canary. 

He leans down and captures her lips with his own, just as slick and swollen as her dreams, but this time she can taste herself on them and it’s _so good_. 

“Am I dead?” she asks, stupidly, breathlessly when he breaks the kiss.

He laughs, effervescent and happy, and says, “Morghon byka.”

Her brow wrinkles in confusion, but then he shifts against her and she can feel the hard press of his cock on her hip and--well, there are more important things to deal with than translating High Valyrian.

\--


	15. the squire!brienne AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Renly brings Brienne back to squire for Loras Tyrell, Cersei wants her gone at all costs, and Jaime's skillfully crafted plan goes _very_ awry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's pretend that this is a one-shot. Let's pretend this is the start of nothing that might be long and involved and multiple chapters. 
> 
> Thanks for your participation.

It was Cersei’s idea, her demand in fact. 

Renly is enough of an embarrassment to the Baratheons, his proclivities the worst kept secret in all of Westeros, but arriving from a visit to Tarth with a female squire in tow is a step too far for Cersei. It’s Jaime’s task to get rid of the girl, swiftly. Cersei likely wouldn’t hesitate to slit her throat and dump her in a river if it meant saving face, but Cersei sent Jaime to do her bidding and he has had enough backstabbing for a lifetime. 

Jaime watches her from a distance. She’s at least a head taller than every other squire and just as broad through the shoulder. In point of fact, Jaime thinks she may be of a height with him, even though she can’t be more than four-and-ten years of age. She fights with brute strength; her footwork shoddy; her stance awkward.

It should take no time at all to humiliate her enough that she returns to Tarth, cowed as she should be. 

He strolls into the open courtyard, his white cloak fluttering him, his gold armor gleaming in the sunlight. The Master-at-arms calls the pages and squires to attention. The turn almost as one to Jaime, bowing deeply, but Jaime only has eyes for the girl; Brienne of Tarth, daughter of the Evenstar, more beast than girl, with a face to match from his understanding. 

Their respects shown, they return to their practice as Jaime makes a perimeter around the yard. She’s beating the much smaller squire she’s paired with, his face twisted with anger and humiliation, flushed and sweaty. Jaime takes pity on the poor boy, weaving through the others until he stands beside them. They pause, staring at him wide-eyed. 

“Ser,” they say in unison, bowing deeply. 

“What is your name?” Jaime asks the boy. 

“Lyle of Crakehall, Ser.” 

“Find someone else to spar,” Jaime tells him, eyes trained on Brienne’s flushed and wary face. “I’m sure you can find someone more suited to your abilities.”

“Yes, Ser,” Lyle stutters and backs away, stumbling slightly over his own feet. 

“Lady Brienne of Tarth, I presume,” Jaime says with a mocking smirk. 

“Yes, Ser.” 

There’s something unpleasant and defiant about her expression, her already coarse features made even cruder by the mulish set of her jaw. 

“Lord Renly’s squire.”

“Yes, Ser,” she answers, even though it wasn’t a question. 

“You are aware, of course, that there are no female knights,” he says smoothly, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. 

“Not _yet_, Ser.” 

She can’t quite keep the glare off her face, her deep blue eyes flecked with shards the color of seaglass. _Pretty eyes_, Jaime can’t help but think. _Put to waste in the face of such a creature._

“Women are ill-suited to swordplay,” Jaime says dismissively, looking over her shoulder and sniffing. “You may be able to best your fellow squires when they don’t yet have a single whisker, but you will never be a match for a man grown.”

“You don’t know that,” she protests stubbornly.

“No woman could.”

“Then you’ve not heard of the warrior women of The Bear Isles,” she says. “Or the women beyond The Wall.” 

“Untried at best, savages at worse.” Jaime nearly laughs when a soft growl sounds from low in her chest. “No woman is a match for a well-trained knight, and most certainly not for me. 

Jaime is taunting her, placing the bait carefully, easier than leading a horse to water. She doesn’t disappoint. 

“I am,” she spits at him. 

“Prove it.”

Nerves flit across her features, there and gone in an instant, her face stilling to blank tranquility as she takes her fighting stance. For a moment, Jaime feels a surge of respect for the wench and a tinge of regret for the embarrassment he is about to inflict upon her. 

He begins slowly, ascertaining if her skills will rise to meet his, or if she was already at her limit when facing the Crakehall boy. He is surprised at the strength of her parries, the bold way she blocks his own strikes. There’s a fierceness in her eyes, a fire in the way she stares at him, an aching need he recognizes in her movements. 

Jaime no longer pities her; he nearly respects her, or at least the determination she displays. He regrets what must be done, but he disarms her in an all-too-easy series of movements he learned when he was still a squire. She stares down at the blunt practice sword, her arm quivering with the effort she put forth. When she finally lifts her eyes to his, he expects her to look defeated, to understand her place. 

Instead, she crouches down and grabs for her sword again, her gaze never leaving his face. She rises and pulls her shoulders back, lifts her chin and raises her weapon with a steely resolve he’s seen in few other knighted men, much less in squires. 

“Rematch?” she questions, blinks, and then as if remembering herself, tacks on a half-hearted, “_Ser_.”

This time when Jaime smiles it’s more genuine than any he’s given within the walls of King’s Landing. He takes his own stance and Brienne of Tarth’s mouth tilts in a way that intrigues him, it’s as if she feels some small victory in merely challenging him. 

Despite her already shaking arm, she gives as much as she did the last bout, gritting her teeth through the pain when her arm tires and he relentlessly beats her back. When he disarms her again, from sympathy rather than boredom or mockery, her face is red, beads of sweat trickling from her straw-colored hair over her freckled face, like a stream over pebbles. 

“You did well,” he finds himself saying, unbidden and too honest. 

She blinks those big, guileless eyes. “Thank you, Ser,” she says quietly, wonderingly. 

She’s better than she has any right to be, and has the face of someone who will work themselves to the bone in order to achieve their goals. 

It will infuriate Cersei, he knows, but Brienne of Tarth deserves better than to be a squire to a man she may already outmatch, at least outlast, with her brute strength. Perhaps, Brienne deserves better than to play squire to a man without honor, a traitor, but he could best Renly Baratheon with both hands bound behind his back. He won’t let someone with the raw talent and strength of character that this girl in front of him has be wasted on the likes of Renly.

“We will spar again tomorrow,” he tells her, his mind already churning with what he must do. 

“Yes, Ser,” she says, her gaze curious and unnerved. 

As it should be. He feels unmanned himself, as if he hardly knows what he’s about. 


	16. Professor!Jaime AU - First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt for more dirty Professor!Jaime smut. This isn't PRECISELY what they asked for, but it's what came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, so be patient with mistakes. Super smutty. Contains no direct reference to the fact that Jaime is her professor, but I would say the overall vibe is very, "Older, experienced man with very inexperienced woman."

Jaime sits back on his heels. Brienne is splayed before him, her long pale limbs a stark contrast to the navy blue of his sheets, her eyes desperate and wanting. 

“Promise me,” he says, his voice hoarse with barely restrained desire, “if you have any doubts--”

“I don’t,” she says breathlessly. 

“_Promise me_,” he repeats emphatically. “I don’t care if I’m already inside of you.” She whimpers at the words and he almost gives in to the weakness that led him here in the first place. “If you want to stop, we stop.”

She stares at him, guileless and overwhelmed. “I promise,” she says firmly. 

He groans, leans down and kisses her desperately enough to sting. She clings when he pushes himself up to stand, the look in her eyes wary. As if he could walk away from her now (or ever). Instead, he pulls her so that her legs are off the bed, her hips right on the edge. Her brow wrinkles in confused until he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and kneels to remove them. 

Her legs tremble when he places his hands against her inner thighs to push them wide, exposing her flushed, already wet cunt. He hears her draw a shaky breath. He looks up to find her biting her lower lip, forehead creased with trepidation. 

“Trust me,” he says gently. She nods, but never lets go of her lip. 

He presses a soft kiss to the delicate skin of her knee. Her muscles tighten the higher his mouth travels, and when he brushes his fingertips over the curly thatch of hair at the apex of her long legs, she jerks reflexively. He uses his other hand to rub soothing circles on her thigh, giving her a moment to adjust to the overwhelming feeling of being completely exposed for the first time.

Brienne twitches, her legs trying to come together on pure instinct when his mouth first touches her. He pauses and looks up at her. It only takes her a moment to gaze down at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. He lifts one of his in a silent question. “Keep going,” she says, voice nearly as tight as the grip she has on his sheets. 

Jaime keeps his eyes trained on her when he leans back in and presses his mouth against her firmly, his tongue darting out to taste the slick heat of her. She gasps and arches off the bed, a choked whimper catching in her chest. He coaxes her to relaxation with gentle kisses and light swipes of his tongue, easing her higher and higher. When she finally comes, it’s a soft rolling tide of pleasure, not an explosion. 

He kisses his way up her body until he’s braced over her with a hand on each side of her shoulders. Her eyes are closed, her cheeks flushed, blonde hair sticking to her damp temples. 

Brienne doesn’t look at him until he brushes a thumb along her cheekbone. Her eyes are shining with a luminous, consuming happiness. 

“We’re not done, are we?” she asks tremulously. “I want more.”

“Fuck,” he breathes out. He kisses her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She moans and raises off the bed to get closer to him. 

Jaime reaches between their bodies, slipping two fingers into the wet heat of her. She presses into the touch, drawing him in farther and panting, “More,” against his shoulder. “Please, more.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” he chants into her hair. He pulls himself away even though it almost aches to do so. 

He can see her pulse fluttering in her neck as she watches him roll on the condom. He covers her body with his own once against, cupping his hand behind one of her knees and pulling it up around his hip, opening her so he can rest in the cradle of her thighs. He positions his cock and pauses.

Brienne looks at him wild-eyed, nervous but eager. 

“We’ll go slowly, okay?” he says softly. 

She nods and lifts her hands, placing them against the thin skin over his ribs, fingers curling so her nails are blunt suggestions of pain.

Jaime enters her slowly, soothing her when she tenses instinctively. 

She grips his sides so hard he thinks he might bruise. 

“Just breathe,” he tells her, holding himself still with all his might. “Focus on the feel of my skin, the sound of my voice, the smell of us tangled up together. Don’t think too much about my cock, that’s only one part of what’s happening right now.” 

Brienne sucks in a breath, her chest rising enough that her pebbled nipples brush against his own chest. She lets it out slowly, the air warm and damp on Jaime’s jaw. Her hands trail up and down his sides, slip around so that her fingertips brush through the sparse hair on his abdomen. He watches carefully as the tension around her eyes and the corners of her mouth lessens until she’s almost completely relaxed again, only then does he press into her more. 

It’s easier this time. She braces herself slightly but still rolls her hips up to meet his and welcome him deeper inside. She’s so warm around him, embracing him in every way possible, her long legs and arms hold him; her pale, silky skin is cool against his own, the plush cushion of her red lips respond to the pressure of his own passionately. 

She doesn’t come again, but he didn’t expect her to, not really. Still, he apologizes, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” over and over as he places kisses haphazardly over her neck and collarbone. 

“Why?” she asks, breathless and confused. 

“You didn’t come again,” he says, levering his weight off of her to gaze into her glassy blue eyes. “I wanted you to.”

She shrugs, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips. “I had--it was--I liked it,” she finally says, mentally fumbling around for the words. “A lot.”

He snorts and kisses her, the affection for her unstudied, easy openness nearly suffocating him with how it fills his entire chest with warmth. “It gets even better,” he promises.

She lets out the faintest of moans when he scrapes his stubble against the sensitive skin underneath her jaw. “I can’t wait.” 


	17. my heart is holding onto you part 1

Brienne is exactly as he remembers and very different. She’s just as tall and broad and homely, but she’s softened around the edges. Then again, regular meals and peace time will do that. The only evidence of her reaction to him is a slight pause in her stride across the courtyard. 

“Ser Jaime,” she greets him with a nod. 

“Ser Brienne.” He bows deeply. “Or would my lady be more appropriate?”

“Ser will do between us.”

Seeing her is more than he imagined and he imagined it being quite overwhelming. Her eyes are more arresting, especially now that he knows the waters of Tarth cannot compare. Though, the gnarled scar on her cheek has faded in color if not in distortion. 

He shifts uncomfortably under her placid stare. 

“You look well, Ser,” he says awkwardly. “The mantle of Evenstar suits you.” 

“I wish that I could return the compliment,” she says lightly, her eyes traveling the length of his body before meeting his eyes once more. 

He hopes he isn’t imagining the humor in them. 

“One hand and a lack of squires will do that to a man,” he says. “And, of course, no longer having access to the Lannister coffers.” 

“Quite.”

She glances briefly as where his right sleeve is tied in a knot over his stump. He’s grateful she doesn’t ask. Not yet. Not here. 

The silence has just become awkwardly when a cacophony of noise comes rings through the courtyard, two small voices calling out, “Mother!”

He has heard tale, but it’s still a shock when the small boys run to Brienne, gazing up at her with excited grins. The soft smile on her face when she looks at them is so maternal it opens up a long-forgotten wound in Jaime’s chest. They’re rambling swiftly about their sword lessons for the days, their brown hair sticking to their head with sweat. 

The older boy is still chattering away when the younger one turns his head, his brown eyes catching sight of Jaime. He looks at him warily but curiously. 

“Who’s that?” he asks bluntly, interrupting the flow of information from his older brother. 

“Manners, Declan,” Brienne says with the swift but long-suffering tone of a parent who has given the same lesson innumerable times. She glances back up at Jaime. “This is Ser Jaime.” For the first time her placid expression wavers before she says, “The man who knighted me.” 

The older boy’s eyes widen. “Goldenhand the Just?” He glances down at Jaime’s empty sleeve as well. “But I don’t see--“

“We use people’s proper names and titles,” Brienne reprimands her older son. “Not whatever silly moniker some court jester named them.” 

The older boy looks properly chastised.

“Yes, mother.” He cuts his eyes to Jaime once again. “But he is Ser Jaime Lannister?” 

“Yes,” Brienne replies, locking eyes with Jaime. “He is Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Is he staying with us?”

Jaime watches Brienne’s throat tighten as she swallows, a shadow passing across her expression. 

“If you have the space for me,” Jaime says carefully. “I would impose upon your hospitality for a time, Ser.”

“Tarth welcomes you, Ser Jaime,” she says. He can’t help but note she says nothing of herself. “You may stay as long as you need.”

But not as long as he wants, he thinks, is the unspoken end to her answer. 

—


	18. my heart is holding on to you part 2

Brienne has never considered what it would be like to see Jaime again. She remembers the day he left, the strangely heavy farewell outside the ruins of King’s Landing. At the time she was sure she would never see him again. 

In some ways, she was right. The man in front of her shares only a passing resemblance to the one that sailed away a decade ago. The grey in his hair has tarnished the gold of his youth, his face is lined with wrinkles she has no memory of, and the bramble bush masquerading as a beard obscures the cut glass jaw and wicked smile that taunted her for so long. 

The eyes are the same, though, bright green, and sharply curious like a cat. 

He follows her through the halls to the guest quarters. Perhaps his time away taught him the value of silence. 

“Tarth seems to be faring well.” 

Or perhaps not. 

“It is,” she confirms. “We’re located advantageously for trade between Westeros and Essos, which has obviously increased quite dramatically after the Wars. The fishing industry as well. We’ve done much to establish some economy that doesn’t rely solely on being an outpost for trade routes.”

“You’ve done.” 

Brienne looks over at him with a raised brow.

He clears his throat. “I only meant that you are the Evenstar,” he explains. “Surely, it is to your credit and not your--”

For the first time in their acquaintance to her knowledge, Jaime stops himself before saying something that might offend. 

“My late husband, did you mean?” she asks, taking a small measure of enjoyment in the way his shoulders tense. “You are largely correct. He left the majority of the decisions for Tarth to me. However, no man or woman is an island and only a fool would try to lead without counsel.” 

He nods but remains silent. For a blessed moment, at least. 

“The boys look like their father,” he says as if it erupts from him, without his permission judging by the look on his face. 

She realizes that he may know she is widowed, but he must believe she married Hyle of all men. There’s no feasible way he knew her husband before. But then, she and Jaime hardly knew one another outside of war and pain. 

“They do,” she confirms, not correcting his incorrect and, frankly, improbable presumption. “Though, Malcolm is shaped much as I was in my youth. He has my height and breadth. Declan, I fear, has inherited my mouth and my nose, before it was broken thrice.”

Jaime hums in acknowledgement as if he has no idea how to respond, despite being the one to broach the subject. He remains silent until they reach the room where he’ll be staying. 

She opens the door for him, leading the way. The maids have already been in to air the room and clean it of dust. 

“I hope you’ll find the quarters comfortable,” she says. “We don’t have many guests at Evenfall.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be a good sight better than most of my accommodations these past several years,” he says with a wry smile. 

She nods. 

“We eat supper in the hall. If you wish, I can have Salyssa escort you when it’s time,” she offers. 

“I would like that.” 

She nods once more and moves to quit the room. She pauses at the door and turns back to face him. 

“I didn’t marry Hyle,” she says simply. 

Jaime blinks. Surprised, she thinks. 

“We wouldn’t have suited.”

“And your husband--” he pauses as if waiting for her to supply a name. When she doesn’t, he continues, “He suited you?” 

She swallows, her throat tightening at the memory of him. She didn’t love him with the aching want that she thought meant love the way she loved Renly. She didn’t love him in a way that felt like every muscle in her body wanted to scream and fight and, what she now knows was, fuck, like how she thought she loved Jaime. 

She loved her husband in she same way Sansa told her Lady Catelyn loved Lord Eddard: built slowly, day-by-day, brick-by-brick, and if it wasn’t an all-consuming passion, it was still something Brienne never thought she would have. Her husband had been kind, comforting, supportive, and, eventually, loving. 

She blinks and realizes Jaime is gazing at her as if he’s trying to read the answer in her expression. She draws her shoulders back and schools her features into placidity once again. 

“Yes,” she says calmly. “We suited.” 

She looks away from him and opens the door. “I’ll send someone with clothes and a wash basin.”

She leaves before he answers.


	19. my heart is holding on to you part 3

Jaime watches Brienne run through her paces for a good while before she seems to feel his gaze, stopping abruptly and turning to face him. 

“I’m pleased to see you're still in fine form,” he says. 

“Is there a reason I wouldn’t be?” she asks archly. 

He tries to suppress his smile at her familiar defensiveness. “Many a knight falls out of practice when elevated to the head of their house, particularly in times of peace. Though, now I think of it, were you yet born before the reign of good King Robert began?” 

He can’t quite help the bitterness in his voice. 

An expression he doesn’t have a chance to read flits across her face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. 

“You know well that I was,” she answers. “Or perhaps you never knew my age. Yes, I was a small child when King Robert was crowned, though I was not yet old enough that I remember.”

Gods, sometimes he does forget—

“Idle lords,” he muses. “Sometimes even knights are more than happy to assume the life of one.”

“I worked harder than most to earn my knighthood,” she says. “I don’t mind saying so now. I have no intention of putting it all to waste, not even in times of peace.” 

“More than anyone,” he says. “You worked harder than anyone for your knighthood. Any man would’ve been knighted for the same deeds long before you were.”

She nods once, sharply. “As you say.”

Jaime wanders over to where the practice swords are lined up, trailing his fingers over their hilts, an aching want in his gut he tried to forget for years. He finds one that looks to be about the right length and lifts it, testing the weight and balance. 

It’s more like coming home than any place ever could be. 

He turns to Brienne, sword held aloft. 

“Would you promise not to embarrass an old man if he asked you to spar with him?” he asks.

“If he asked me himself, I would consider it.” 

He laughs loudly, the first truly happy laugh for him in too many years to count. Long enough that it sounds foreign to his own ears. 

“May I have this dance, my lady?” he asks with an exaggerated tone and bow. At her familiar scowl, he grins wide enough his cheeks hurt. “Ser,” he corrects.

He knew he wouldn’t match her, or come close, but the clumsiness is new and he’s barely as strong as the greenest of squires. It takes an embarrassingly short number of bouts before he’s bent double, hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath, his muscles quivering like a newborn foal. 

“Thank you,” he says between gasps. 

“For what?” she asks, flipping the sword over her hand. 

“For not laughing at my humiliating showing.”

“Have you touched a sword since you left Westeros?” she asks bluntly. 

“Am I that bad?” he asks lightly. 

She looks at him pointedly. “A direct answer will suit.”

“No.” He sighs. “For a time, it would have been too notable for a man of my status to be as skilled as I once was. After that, I had neither time nor opportunity to practice. Nor, to be forthright, access to weaponry.”

She looks at him, seeming to search for something, but she simply says, “Then you performed as well as anyone could expect.”

“Ah,” he says, straightening to his full height once again, tilting his head. “Damned with faint praise.”

It pleases him that her mouth twists in irritation, her voice harsher when she says, “Would you like a deeper assessment? You have the strength of my eldest son and he’s only just turned eight. You have the speed of a man twenty years your senior and you apparently no longer think it necessary to try. You had already decided your defeat before you took the first step.” 

With that, she pushes past him to return her practice sword. He has no immediate response, and she apparently feels he doesn’t require more attention than her harsh, though accurate, observations.

She’s halfway across the courtyard, her broad shoulders and tense walk too achingly familiar even after all these years.

“Brienne,” he calls. 

She stops immediately, jerking as if startled. When she turns to face him, she looks like he slapped herr; wide-eyed, mouth slack, cheeks pinkened. His heart feels like it’s ricocheting around his ribcage; he fears it may not be entirely from the exertion of their duel. Perhaps the presumption of using her given name was a step too far, an intimacy she’s not willing to allow anymore. 

“If I swear to try, will you practice with me?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound half so pathetic as he fears he does. “It would be an honor and I have missed it.”

It takes a blood chilling moment for her to reply. 

“I practice every morning at sunrise,” she says. “I won’t make special allowances for you. I’m busy with the running of my island.” 

“Of course,” he says. “Thank you.”

She nods curtly. “I will see you tomorrow, Ser.”

She puts a slight emphasis on the last word and he knows that she means it as a rebuke and a reminder of what they are to one another now.


	20. my heart is holding on to you part 4

Jaime arrives in the yard before her the next morning, and the morning after, and the morning after that. In fact, he arrives every morning before her for a fortnight. 

At some point, she starts expecting it. At some point, it stops startling her to see him. 

He’s improved, but not by much, and she knows that he is truly so out of practice and old enough that he’ll never regain what he once had. But he is improving. 

Still, she disarms him and sweeps his feet out from underneath him for the tenth time in a half hour. 

He groans. “I yield, Ser,” he says, without opening his eyes. “If you’ll have mercy on me, I believe that’s enough abuse for the day.”

She holds out her hand and when he finally opens his eyes he takes it, allowing her to haul him to a standing position. 

“You’re getting better,” she tells him sincerely. 

He smiles wryly. “I’m almost certain I couldn’t have become worse.” 

“I don’t give compliments readily,” she says. 

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” He mocks a half-bow, as he always does at the end of their bouts. “I thank you for the sound beating, Ser.”

She doesn’t honor him with a response to his insincerity. 

She expects him to leave after he puts away his practice sword; he does most mornings. Instead, he remains to watch her finish her own practice. She can feel his eyes on her as she moves through the paces, pushing past her normal limits to--she doesn’t know, precisely. She doesn’t want to think about why. 

When she finally finishes, replacing her own sword, getting a drink of water from the barrel, and any other way to waste time that she can imagine, she finally starts back to the castle, leaving Jaime to trail after her. She tries to keep pace, reminding herself to walk normally despite the instinct to get as far away from him as fast as possible before she has to face whatever it is she’s avoiding. 

“What was his name?” Jaime asks. 

She stops in her tracks. Jaime walks past her a couple of steps before coming to a halt and facing her. 

“What?” she asks.

“Your husband,” Jaime says. “You didn’t marry Hunt. I was wondering who you did marry.”

“You didn’t know him,” she says, her lips strangely numb. 

“That’s not what I asked.”

There’s a strange note to Jaime’s voice. Or maybe she’s imagining it, maybe it’s that her heart is thumping queerly in her chest. 

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Jaime asks, frowning, his eyebrows knit together, a look of genuine hurt painted on his features. 

She doesn’t know. It’s not as if she can’t speak of her husband. Her boys speak of him often; she wants it that way. It’s important that they remember their father. 

“That’s not--” she begins to protest but thinks better of it. She’s been down that path a thousand times with Jaime, a circle of words that devolve into an argument with no true meaning or ending. “His name was Alec Mormont. He was the third son of a second son.”

She doesn’t know why she explains any further than his name, except that the name alone causes Jaime’s face to relax, and that alone causes something inside her to uncoil. 

“It was Sansa’s arrangement,” Brienne explains. “That’s how we met, why we married. He needed lands and funds. I needed heirs.”

“You make it sound like a trade agreement,” Jaime says, a sharpness to his tone that years ago would have made her lash out at him for the slight. Now...now it just makes her tired. 

“It was,” she agrees. “At first.”

“But not always?” 

Brienne starts walking again, leaving him to trail her through the halls once more. She needs to keep moving before she has to wonder if the tremble in her hands is something other than exhaustion from training. 

“Not always,” she agrees. 

“What was he like?” Jaime asks. 

She sighs heavily. “Why are you asking me these things?”

“Because—” he clears his throat. “Because I would like to know you again.” 

Brienne knows the throbbing of her pulse isn’t from practicing. 

“He was kind,” she says after a pause, when she’s sure her voice won’t shake in time with her hands. “Loyal. Honorable. Faithful.” 

“How thrilling.”

She draws up short, rage racing through her veins like a bolt of lightning and it takes everything within her not to punch Jaime. 

“How dare you,” she says, not caring if her words tremble. Jaime looks at her, blanching the moment he sees the expression on her face. 

“Bri—”

“You will not speak ill of him,” she says vehemently. “He was a good man and we had a good marriage. If nothing else, he was honest with me. He loved me as no one else ever has and I never had to wonder where he lay his heart.”

“My apologies,” Jaime says quietly, still pale and wide-eyed. “I should not have made a jest of it. I hope this will not change your mind in regard to our sparring sessions.” 

She doesn’t have an answer for him, not yet. All she wants is to be well away from him until she can catch her breath. He looks defeated and some dark part of her is glad of it. 

“If you—I am—” he huffs like a frustrated child. “I am relieved he was a good husband to you. No one could deserve it more.” 

Jaime leaves then, turning from her and walking away before she can gather herself to respond.


	21. my heart is holding on to you part 5

Evenfall is not nearly large enough that Jaime worries about losing his way within its walls. He has less to do here than he ever did in Essos. There he had to worry about food and a roof over his head, watching his back from pickpockets. 

He supposes it’s that awareness that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He looks over his shoulder to see a small brunette head disappear behind the corner. He smiles and turns so he can walk backward, facing the corner. It takes no more than three steps before the boy’s face pops into view. The boy freezes, his eyes widening like a startled rabbit. 

“You may as well come out now,” Jaime says. “You have nothing to fear, I swear it.”

The boy hesitantly steps out but walks no closer. 

“You’re Ser Brienne’s youngest son, aren’t you?” Jaime asks. The boy nods. “You’ll have to give me your name, I fear I’ve forgotten it.”

“Declan,” he says quietly. 

“Declan,” Jaime repeats. The boy is all pale skin, dark hair and eyes. He remembers Brienne said the boy inherited her nose and mouth, but Jaime can’t see it. It unnerves him that if he saw the boy in a market, he would never guess, never know, who his mother was. The combination of pale skin and fawn-like eyes calls to mind another young boy from long ago. “Is there a reason you were following me?”

Declan shakes his head rather than answering. 

Jaime sighs and squats down, gesturing for the boy to come closer. Declan bites his lip but walks slowly toward him, hands clutched into nervous fists at his sides. 

“Do you know my name, Declan?”

Declan nods his head. “You’re Ser Jaime Lannister, Goldenhand the Just.” 

Jaime barely manages not flinching at the title. 

Declan seems not to notice because he continues unabated. “You knighted my mother before the Battle for King’s Landing and gifted her with both Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail.”

Just the name of the swords trips along Jaime’s nerve endings. 

“Yes, that’s all true,” Jaime confirms. “You know quite a lot for a boy.”

Declan preens at the compliment. “I’m better at my studies than Malcolm, Septon Wyllis said so.”

Jaime suppresses a smile. “My younger brother was a good bit better than I as well.”

Declan bites his lip and his eyes fall to where Jaime’s right arm ends short of his hand. 

“Ser,” Declan begins hesitantly. Jaime nods that he may continue, knowing what’s coming. “If you’re Goldenhand the Just...what happened to your hand, the golden one?”

Jaime takes a breath before answering. He hasn’t spoken of the aftermath of the battle with anyone, much less with a child that could be no more than six years old. 

“It served me no purpose anymore,” he says simply. “It was heavy and it didn’t help me to do anything more than I could with my left, so I sold it to pay for a home and food. Those were much more useful to me than something pretty, wouldn’t you agree?” 

The boy nods vigorously.

“Do you want another hand?” he asks. 

“No,” Jaime says easily. “I get along rather well without now.”

The boy shifts, a look on his face all but screaming that he has another question. 

“You may ask me anything,” Jaime offers. 

“Did you really lose your hand to a bear when protecting my mother?”

The bark of laughter escapes Jaime before he can help it, loud and echoing off of the granite halls. Declan startles at the volume. It’s been so long since Jaime had reason to speak of the bear incident, that the simple reminder is welcome this far removed. 

“My apologies,” Jaime says, patting Declan’s slight shoulder. “I didn’t mean to startle you. There was a bear, though your mother saved me as much as I did her. I did lose my hand protecting your mother, but it was to prevent some very bad men from harming her.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Very much,” Jaime says. He can still remember the excruciating infection and the recovery that may have been even worse. “But I would do it again, a thousand times more.” 

“That’s very brave of you,” Declan says, an admiring look in his eyes that settles poorly in Jaime’s gut. 

“It’s what any honorable man would do,” Jaime deflect. “Your mother did many brave things as well. She saved my life as many, if not more, times than I have saved hers. The scar on her cheek,” Jaime brushes his thumb against Declan’s where her scar would be, “she received that while in service to me.” 

The boy’s eyes widen, his mouth forming a soft ‘o’ of surprise. 

“Your mother and I had many adventures,” Jaime says, not liking how thick his voice becomes. “Not many of them were happy, but _I’m_ happy to have met her.”

“Did you miss her?” Declan asks. “I miss her when she has to leave for meetings.”

“I did,” Jaime admits, though why he’s being more honest with a child than with the woman in question isn’t something he wants to examine too closely. 

“Is that why you’re here? Because you missed her and she makes you happy?”

He makes it sounds so simple. To him, it probably is. When someone makes you happy, you want to be near them. If you miss them, you want to be near them. It _should_ be that easy. 

But life is rarely that simple when you reach adulthood.

“That’s part of it, yes,” Jaime answers. “I have other things I must do. But yes, I’m here because I wanted to see your mother again.” 

Declan nods seriously, looking amusingly contemplative for such a small boy. 

“Do you know your way around the Keep?” Jaime asks him.

That draws Declan out of his reverie and he grins. “Yes!”

“Would you like to show me some of your favorite places?”

“Oh!” He looks surprised. “Yes, if you would like.”

Jaime stands up once again, wincing at the creaking pain in his knees and ankles. “Yes, I would very much appreciate your assistance.” 


	22. my heart is holding on to you part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slight warning that this does delve into some potential (though averted) self-destructive tendencies on Jaime's part. I don't think it should be triggering and it's very implied, but please let me know if this needs more of a warning.

Brienne pauses on the walkway looking out over the training yard. The pages and squires are being put through their paces by Ser Manfryd, her sons included, but there’s an interloper moving between the rows of children. Even from her vantage point she can see the gentle way Jaime corrects their form; straightening a wrist here, turning a foot there, using his own hand to show a correction to a child’s grip. It’s odd watching him. She realizes she’s never seen him with a child, be it his own or others. The few times he was near one he seemed uncomfortable, but this Jaime smiles easily and speaks softly and the children gaze up at him with nothing short of worshipful admiration. 

She remembers so clearly how she felt at their ages, the Jaime she knew of. The Kingslayer, oathbreaker, man without honor, who killed the man he swore to protect by slitting his throat. She had been repulsed by the very idea of him and the way he besmirched the very idea of knighthood. Now, children know him as Goldenhand the Just, Queenslayer, savior of Westeros, peacebringer. She is one of the few who knows the truth of what that title means to him and how it tears at his soul with every utterance. 

He’s been at Evenfall for a full moon cycle now with no sign of departure. He no longer asks her prying questions about her life while he was gone, but he does ask about Tarth and from whom she gets counsel. He still shows up every sunrise for sword practice and lingers to watch her after she beats him soundly. She’s almost grown accustomed to his presence, only the knowledge that he will leave again prevents her, _protects_ her, from it. As if sensing her gaze, he lifts his head and turns it until his eyes meet hers. The moment he sees her, an easy grin sweeps across his face. It’s the sort of grin people compose songs for, a lovely tilt of his lips that settles warmly in her chest, raising goosebumps on her arms. It’s always been a habit of hers to be honest, if only with herself, so she knows it’s only fear that makes her hesitate to return his smile. 

She has no reason to fear him now. The pain she felt when he left was that of a young, naive girl. She’s no longer so vulnerable to the world nor as tender as an open wound, but when Jaime looks away to say something to the child in front of him it takes Brienne a second too long to realize it’s Malcolm. He looks up, waves to her happily and says something to Jaime with great enthusiasm. 

Jaime laughs, shoulders shaking, the sound echoing around the walled-off yard. He pats Malcolm on the shoulder and jerks his head toward Ser Manfryd before looking to Brienne once again. He holds up a hand to request that she wait for him. 

It doesn’t take him long to make his way up the stairs to the walkway. 

He bows, amusement still wrinkling his eyes. “Ser.” 

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” she says, glancing back at the ongoing training. 

“I am.” Jaime grins, bright and breathtaking. “I didn’t realize I missed it; the swords and training and their excitement. I thought it would make me sick, but instead, I find myself...hopeful.” He looks at her, an unreadable weight to his gaze. “Maybe they won’t have to make the same sort of choices we did.” 

“If nothing else, the former Capitol will serve as a stark reminder of what the consequences of war can be,” she says quietly, forcing herself to look him in the eye, no matter how uncomfortable and skewering the pain there is. “It will be generations before the city is even half of what it once was, even when the people who served in the wars are gone, their lineage will continue the difficult work of rebuilding.” 

“Do you hate me?” he asks her, voice quiet and choked sounding. 

“Why would I hate you?” she asks, genuinely confused. “I have no cause to.”

“Of course not, you aren’t the hateful sort,” he says looking away, the last part spoken as if to himself. “Do you judge me then? You are well within your right to.” 

“Ser Jaime—” He doesn’t flinch, but his face does tighten when she addresses him formally. He insists on calling her Brienne when they are alone and she can’t find it within her to stop him. Still, she can’t bring herself to call him by his given name alone. “What is there to judge now?”

“I could have stopped her,” he says flatly. 

“You _did_,” she says, bewildered. “The gods know you have the title to prove it, no matter how you despise it.”

He shakes his head. “I could have stopped her before she burnt the city to the ground.”

“How?” 

“I knew she had access to wildfire and I knew she was...unwell,” Jaime explains, his eyes are still turned toward her but he’s not looking at _her_. 

“Did you truly believe she would burn King’s Landing to the ground?” 

“I don’t know now,” Jaime says, helplessly. “I should have. She was threatening it. I was reasoning with her or trying to, but I didn’t _do_ anything until--”

“What could you have done other than--” Brienne stops, the word catching on the tip of her tongue. 

“Other than what I inevitably did when it was already too late?” Jaime asks bitterly.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. When she opens them again, Jaime’s looking at her and she makes certain they’ve locked eyes before she says, “If you had killed her before she set the wildfire alight, before you knew _for certain_ that she would, would you be standing before me now?”

Jaime trembles. She can see it around his mouth and eyes and she knows if she looked to his hands, they would be shaking, too. 

“If you hadn’t waited, you would be dead too,” she says, voice thick with everything she’s never said aloud. “If she hadn’t destroyed King’s Landing--there’s no telling how long the war would last, how many more lives would be lost, how many houses would lay in ruin, how fractured the Kingdom that remained would be. It was not a good ending or a happy one, but it was an ending to the fighting.

“We have peace now.” She tilts her head, hopes he can see how much she means it when she says. “You deserve the credit you were given, whether you believe it and want it or not, Jaime.”

His lips part at her use of his name but no sound comes from him. 

She looks away from him, drawing a deep breath into her lungs. “Thank you,” she says, affecting a lighter tone, “for helping with the trainees. I’ve seen you with them. You’re very patient but very firm.” 

He walks into her line of vision to lean on the balustrade. “I’m enjoying it more than I thought I would,” he admits. “I never thought of teaching, but it’s been very rewarding.”

Brienne moves to stand beside him, finding her boys in the group. “I hope you know that you’re welcome to stay,” she says quietly. She can feel when he looks over at her, but she keeps her eyes trained on the yard. “For as long as you please, whether or not you continue to help Ser Manfryd.”

It takes a moment, but finally, Jaime says, “Thank you.” 


	23. my heart is holding on to you part 7

The beaches around Tarth are not at all like the sandy beaches that surrounded Jaime’s childhood home and certainly nothing at all like the hot and humid shores of Marahai. Tarth is surrounded by dark grey rocks that turn to pebbles closer to the sea, craggy things that cut at the bottoms of his feet when he braves the shoreline barefoot. He mentions it to Brienne one day and she just smiles and accuses him of being a mainlander before disappearing for a meeting with her council. 

The weather on Tarth also leaves something to be desired for a man that’s spent the past several years acclimating to a climate that feels more like the hot springs that run through Winterfell. It’s perpetually cloudy and on the verge of or actively raining at Evenfall. 

He’s been cold since he arrived.

Still, he finds himself treading carefully over the sharp rocks, listening to the waves lapping at the cliffs surrounding the inlet nearest to the castle. The sound of children laughing grows louder and he looks up to see Brienne’s sons scuttle down the hill to the beach, running past him, their mother following at a much steadier pace. She looks torn between amusement and aggravation, the corner of her mouth tilted up, but an eyebrow cocked in annoyance. 

She only pauses for a second when she sees him, continuing her way down the side of the hill, stopping to stand next to him. 

“Ser Jaime,” she greets him, keeping her eyes on the boys where they’re splashing into the water. 

“So formal?” he questions, unable to keep the teasing tone out of his voice. 

The look she gives him is so singularly unimpressed that he can’t help but laugh. 

“My apologies, _Ser _Brienne,” he says facetiously, “I simply thought we were on friendlier terms now.”

Brienne huffs and it takes all of Jaime’s self-control not to titter like a young maid. “I suppose I should take some small measure of comfort that no matter what transpires, you will _always_ be the most infuriatingly insouciant man I’ve ever met.”

“And you shall always be the most unfailingly staid woman I’ve ever met,” he says with a smile. “I can only assume the gods thought it quite a lark to throw the two of us into each other’s paths again and again.”

“Yes, well,” she says, shifting slightly. “We worked quite well together when given the chance.”

He knows he’s staring at her, but he doesn’t look away until she flushes and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. A familiar gesture, even after years, that speaks to how uncomfortable she is. “Indeed,” he finally says quietly.

He shifts his gaze to where Malcolm and Declan are splashing each other, squealing as cold water soaks them both through their woolen breeches and tunics. They’re good boys, he’s learned from helping Ser Manfryd with their lessons, eager to learn and mindful. Malcolm may look nothing at all like his mother, but he’s certainly inherited her serious mood and intensity. Declan…

“Malcolm is much like you,” Jaime says, still looking at the boys. “I think his every dream is of being knighted.” 

“He’s been that way since he could walk,” she says. He glances over to see the soft smile on Brienne’s lips. “One of the first things he did was pick up a stick and play that it was a sword. I fear there was no avoiding it.” 

“And Declan?” Jaime asks. He hesitates slightly. “Is he much like your late husband?” 

“Yes and no,” she answers softly. “He’s much more soft-hearted than either Alec or me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Jaime says, turning to look at her once more, tracing the uneven lines of her features. “I always thought you had the softest of hearts. You simply hid it beneath the hardiest of armors.” 

She looks at him, her eyes wide and startled, her thick mouth parted in surprise. “You certainly never said as much to me,” she murmurs. 

He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. 

“There were many things I didn’t say to you then,” he says quietly. 

“Oh,” she says, though it’s more her lips forming the shape than any noise escaping. 

He turns toward her, bracing himself, no idea what’s about to pour from him, no matter how ill-advised and imprudent. 

But the gods seem to have other ideas.

Brienne is nearly bowled over by the full weight of Declan throwing himself against her, arms wrapped around her waist. 

“_Declan_,” she says, needing only the tone of her voice for the boy to look apologetic. 

“I’m sorry, mother,” he says, though his tone leaves much to be desired in the realm of true sincerity. 

“What is so important that you attempted to tackle me?” she questions him, a gentle hand pushing the salt-stiffening hair off of his forehead. 

“May we swim?” he asks eagerly.

“No. It’s too cold.”

“But--”

“I said no,” Brienne says sternly. 

It’s odd but comforting to watch Brienne being motherly. She was always so kind to Pod, even when training him, and to see it magnified in the way she treats her own children--it burrows into him. 

“It’s too cold,” Brienne explains. “We didn’t bring a change of clothing and you’ll catch ill if you get too far out.”

At Declan’s mournful expression, Brienne looks heavenward for a moment and Jaime can see her mentally steeling herself. 

“The next sunny day, we’ll bring a change of clothes and you and Malcolm may swim as long as you wish,” she says. 

Declan looks slightly mollified, but his voice is still sulky when he says, “Yes, mother.”

He wanders back to his brother, shaking his head, and Malcolm’s shoulders droop too.

“They’re very well-behaved,” Jaime says, though the boys have now plopped themselves down and are sullenly sifting through rocks for seashells. 

Brienne laughs and it sings through Jaime like nothing else. It’s the first one he’s heard from her since arriving on Tarth and when he looks over, she’s actually grinning wide enough to show her broken teeth and the way the scar on her cheek stops that side of her mouth short. Jaime will fight anyone who dares tell him she’s not glorious in her happiness.

“You choose this moment to tell me my children are well-behaved?” she asks him with a shake of her head.

He smiles ruefully. “Not to expose myself too much, but I wouldn’t have asked permission first.” 

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me,” she says, but it’s lighter. 

“And I suppose you always asked permission first?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow, not even needing to point out that the first female knight couldn’t possibly have asked permission for all things.

“Well,” she says, low and round and inviting somehow, “perhaps not always.” 

There’s a small, nearly conspiratorial smile on her face before she faces the water once again, but he thinks something has shifted. It feels like the sun has come out, warming him in a way that he hasn’t felt since he sailed west of Ghaen. 


	24. my heart is holding on to you part  8

When Jaime enters her solar, she stands from her desk and hopes that she’s not flushed red from her cheeks to her chest.

“Jaime,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound half so nervous as she feels. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course.” He smiles, more easily now than when he first arrived, she thinks. “It’s not as if I have anything better than to come when my lady calls.”

_Oh, for Seven’s…_

She rolls her eyes. “I have something for you,” she says, thankful that he’s managed to obliterate any tension. She walks toward the door leading into her bedchamber, gesturing for him to follow before she thinks better of it. 

She hadn’t intended to invite him in, but then, he always seems to find his way into places he wasn’t meant to be. 

Brienne retrieves Widow’s Wail from its place over her mantel. Oathkeeper looks strangely bare without her sister sword crossed over her. The sword had been her one concession after her marriage, the one thing she allowed herself, justifying it as a tribute to the Starks, both Catelyn and then Sansa, the women she pledged herself to. 

She may have shared her bed with a bear, but there was always a lion above her hearth. 

She takes a breath and turns to face Jaime, holding the sword horizontal in her hands. He’s looking around her room with a curious expression, but he seems to sense her gaze on him because he looks at her. Her breath catches when their eyes do. She closes the distance between them, standing close enough that he doesn’t have to reach for the sword.

Jaime’s hand hovers above the pommel but it takes him a moment to touch it, even then, he only rests his hand lightly on it. 

“This is yours,” he says quietly, looking up from the sword. “I gave it to you.”

“For safekeeping,” she says. “You couldn’t take it with you, but now--”

“No,” he interrupts her, gently. “I _gave_ it to you.”

_Oh_.

“Jaime…”

“You have two sons,” he says, though she thinks the light tone may be affected. “Let one carry Oathkeeper and the other Widow’s Wail. They were once Ned Stark’s sword; they should remain with the family that swore allegiance to the Stark family.”

“But--”

“Brienne,” Jaime says, sounding as exasperated as she’s ever felt with him, “if nothing else, it is my sword to do with as I please. I want you to set it aside for Declan. I have no sons of my own and it would please me to leave it to yours.”

“You may yet.”

Jaime smiles a bit ruefully. “An old man like me? No, I think I can safely say the sword will be Declan’s when I am gone.”

“Men far older than you have sired children,” Brienne points out. “It’s not the same for men as it is for women, as you well know.”

“Even so, I don’t have much to recommend me,” Jaime says. “I’m a one-handed, infamous, currently penniless man who just returned from being away long enough that he was presumed dead. My prospects are grim.”

“Pardon me for saying it, but you are still, and will always be, Goldenhand the Just, that alone--”

Jaime flinches. He takes a step away from her and she regrets saying the words, no matter how true and well-meant.

“It’s strange,” he says absently, looking away from her. “I truly thought that being called Kingslayer was awful, that being reviled for my one true act of heroism was a punishment greater than any other I could imagine. I had dreamed of nothing more than being a knight and then to be raised to the Kingsguard--” He shakes his head. “Reviled for my one true heroic act and revered for my most cowardly, funny, isn’t it?”

It’s Brienne’s turn to flinch at the acid in his tone. 

“You did your best,” she says firmly. 

“A scathing indictment, indeed.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Jaime dismisses it all with a wave of his hand. “Be that as it may, even if all that I said wasn’t true, I’m still not interested. What would I do with some sweet, young woman?”

“Marry her,” Brienne says flatly. “Have children with her. Rebuild your legacy with her.” 

“How dull,” he says. “I thank you, but no. If I ever marry, it won’t be to someone simply for the chance at fathering children.” 

“You _are_ the last of your line--”

“And I’ve cousins aplenty to carry on the Lannister name and house,” Jaime interrupts her. “I can think of many, many worse things than Tywin Lannister’s bloodline dying out with my passing. We’ve brought very little good to the world.”

“It’s not so bad, you know,” she says quietly, turning her back on him and placing Widow’s Wail in its rightful place across Oathkeeper. “Marrying someone for duty and allowing love to follow.”

Jaime’s silent and when she finally turns to face him again, she keeps her shoulders braced against the mantel, fearing whatever she’ll find in his expression. She never knows what to expect these days. He’s always been the most mercurial of men, but instead of flashing between humor and anger, these days he seems to swing wildly from lingering sadness to--to something else entirely when he looks at her.

“Did it take you very long?” he asks, his eyes boring into her as if trying to look _through_ her. “To love your husband, I mean.”

The room closes in around her despite being a large, cavernous thing that’s felt hollow since Alec died. 

“I--” she pauses, the words catching in her throat, her heart thudding in her chest. “I’m not sure, it’s been so long now.” She knows her voice is shaking and she knows it isn’t from grief. “I liked him well enough when we married and one day, I suppose, I loved him. I think around the time I was carrying Malcolm I realized it, but there was never some grand moment when it crashed in on me.”

“Was it--” Jaime stops and shakes his head. “Forgive me, I was about to be an unforgivable arse.”

“You have grown, finally,” she says. Jaime lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ve ever once stopped yourself from being an arse. You may ask me. I doubt it’s any worse than the stuff you’ve said to me in the past.”

Jaime looks uncomfortable, but he still asks, “Was it easier when he died than when Renly died?” 

It hits her square in the stomach, a nauseating punch. 

“By which I mean,” Jaime says quickly, seeing the look on her face. “Is it easier when you’re able to love someone and live with them and say goodbye or when you lose someone you never truly had?” 

“They’re not comparable,” Brienne says numbly. “I didn’t love Renly, Jaime. I was a child. He was kind to me at a very vulnerable age and he was very handsome, but what I felt was not love, and it did not take very many years for me to understand the difference.”

Jaime looks truly regretful when he says, “My apologies. Truly. I wonder sometimes if my grief was so magnified because--”

“I would like to say something,” Brienne interrupts him. He startles, his eyebrows shooting up. She squares her shoulders. “We didn’t speak of this at the time and we, clearly, have not had a chance since. I am sorry that you had to kill your sister, but I am sorrier you had to kill the only woman you ever loved. It is a burden no man should have to bear. That they were the same woman only compounds your grief, it doesn’t lessen it. I knew you too well by that point to dismiss your love for her, so I know how it must have pained you. The grief you felt--there is nothing wrong with it. Whether she was a good person or not, you had loved her your entire life, from the moment you entered the world until the moment she left it. That is more than many men could bear and you did.” 

She’s fairly certain she could knock Jaime over with a feather, judging by the look on his face. 

“Brienne--”

“Alec was ill, a wasting disease brought from Lys on a trading ship, we think,” she says, not allowing him to fill the space with what that expression means. It makes her heart feel too odd to allow him the leave. “However, it was slow enough we were all able to say goodbye to one another and I was given leave to mourn him openly. It was very different from what you had to experience.” 

“Your sons are extraordinarily blessed,” Jaime says, gazing at her bright-eyed.

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“I never knew true kindness,” he explains. “Not as a boy and certainly not as a man...not until I met you. They have the good fortune of being raised by the kindest person I have ever known.”

She can feel her face grow hot in an instant. 

“I may have you tell them that the next time they inform me how mean I am for not allowing them some freedom,” she murmurs.

Jaime’s laugh is a light, genuine thing, and it thankfully lifts the weight in the air. 

“Oh, please send them my way. If nothing else, I can tell them tales of my father. That should give them some perspective, at least.” 


	25. my heart is holding on to you part 9

It’s finally a sunny day and Malcolm and Declan haven’t been out of the sea for more than fifteen minutes strung together and only then to eat provisions before diving back into the waves. 

“They’re like seal pups,” Jaime observes, leaning back on his elbows and letting the sun warm his face. 

“A trait they inherited from me,” Brienne says from above him. 

He squints up at her, the sun turning her straw-colored hair nearly white. Behind her, the granite cliffs of Tarth are sharp and dark against the pale blue sky. 

“Did you learn to dive from those?” Jaime asks, nodding toward them. “I seem to remember you being quite skilled.”

Brienne turns to look where he indicated, a gentle smile on her lips. “Yes.” She turns to look down at him, and even with the sun behind her shading her face, he can tell the blue of her eyes would put the sky to shame. “My brother Galladon taught me and swore me to secrecy.”

“Were you close in age?” 

He braces for her to shy away from the topic or shutter behind carefully constructed walls. Instead, she turns toward him a bit more, angling her body so that her entire upper half is turned toward him. 

“He was eight to my four when he drowned,” she says.

“And he was already teaching you to dive from the cliffs?” Jaime asks, louder than he intends. 

Brienne _laughs_. 

_Loudly_. 

“You sound like a Septa,” she says, laughing more when he scowls at her. “If it makes you feel any better, I was likely the size you were as an eight-year-old when I was four.”

“Do you remember him?” Jaime asks, picking up a slate rock and scraping the sharp edges with his thumbnail. 

“Not much,” Brienne says softly. “More than I remember my mother, but then, she died when I was three. Of course, I don’t remember anything of my sisters.”

“Your sisters?” 

“Arianne and Alysanne,” Brienne says, her mouth drawn tight for a second. “Twins. My mother and both of them died during their birth. I suppose I wasn’t shown the babies at all.” 

“And your brother drowned the very next year?” Jaime asks, his heart twisting at the very thought of it.

Brienne nods. “I think it’s why I left, eventually,” she says. “I was a burden to my father. It wasn’t enough for him to have lost everyone, but then his one remaining family member was a freak of nature.” She drops her chin and draws a deep breath. “I’m only glad that he saw me married and Malcolm born before he died. I was able to give him some comfort at the end, finally.”

“Brienne,” he says firmly. She glances up at him, eyes wide with surprise at his tone. “I assure you, your father was proud of you regardless of your marital status. You were the first woman ever knighted in Westeros. You worked harder for that knighthood than any man could ever fathom. He would have been a fool to be anything other than proud and from everything you’ve told me, your father was no fool.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

He nods once, curtly and looks back to the sea, his stomach coiling up with the urge to commit violence against some unnamed enemy. Whatever it is that makes the world tell women like Brienne that they are somehow unwanted or lesser than, he wants to be it to a bloody pulp until he feels worthwhile, relevant, useful. It’s a selfish feeling, but then, he’s a selfish man. 

They rest in silence, though it’s not as uncomfortable as Jaime expects it to be. Brienne slathers butter and cheese on bread and sets it out on a slab with fruits and salt-cured meat for the boys to pick from when they finally come ashore. 

“Help yourself,” she offers quietly. 

By the time the boys finally come onshore for good, the sun has dipped behind the cliffs entirely, leaving the inlet shaded and cool. Brienne wraps them in blankets, scrubbing them as dry as she can before they change into their other clothing. When they settle, they cram food into their mouths like starving beasts. 

Malcolm has a cheek full of cheese when he looks up and asks, “Ser Jaime?”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full of food,” Brienne warns. 

Malcolm swallows noisily. 

“Yes, Malcolm?”

“Will you tell us the story of the bear?” he asks eagerly. “The _real _story?

Jaime does his best not to smile. “Haven’t you asked your mother about the bear?”

“Oh, we have,” Declan pipes up. “But we can’t be certain she told us the truth. She isour mother.”

“Does your mother _often_ lie to you?” Jaime asks, mocking an aghast expression, turning wide, horrified eyes on Brienne.

She glares at him.

“No!” Malcolm says hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder at Brienne. “Mother doesn’t lie. It’s only...she might have made it nicer for us. Like a bedtime story instead of the _whole_ truth.”

Jaime looks at Brienne with his eyebrows raised in question. She closes hers briefly and he can imagine her praying to The Mother for patience. Finally, she nods yes. 

“I can only tell you from my side what happened, you understand,” Jaime says. “If your mother hasn’t shared her side, I can’t force her to, and she will in her own time.”

They both nod eagerly, shifting onto their knees, their hands clutched into fists of excitement. 

“Your mother and I were traveling to King’s Landing when we were captured by very bad men,” Jaime begins. “When they attempted to hurt her, I protected her and they took my hand instead.

“Then they discovered that my father was Tywin Lannister and they knew he was very, very wealthy,” Jaime continues. “They decided to ransom me, but they wouldn’t agree to ransom your mother. I didn’t want to leave her but she gave me a very important task to do for her.

“So I rode away.”

Both boys look suitably horrified at their mother being left with terrible men. They look back at her, their mouths open in shock. She simply gestures for Jaime to continue. 

“But that very first night I had a dream of your mother. I was in a dark cave, lost and scared with only one hand, and there were ghosts hunting me, but your mother appeared to me and she had a magic sword that lit up the cave when it was with my own and together we beat back the ghosts.”

Declan gasps. “Was it Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail?” he asks excitedly, bouncing on his heels.

Jaime smiles. “Those swords hadn’t been forged when I had the dream, but I suppose, in a way, yes. When I woke up, I told the company I rode with that we had to go back for your mother. Well, I didn’t tell them it was for your mother. Simply that we had to go back to Harrenhal.

“When we arrived I could hear a great commotion and I knew something bad must be happening, so I ran toward the noise and when I arrived at the great pit, I climbed the stairs and saw that they had put your mother into the pit with a great big bear. I told them they must let your mother free, but they wouldn’t listen and that’s when I saw they had given her only a tourney sword to fight the bear with. You see, they meant to watch the bear kill your mother.”

The boys don’t say anything, but Declan does scoot over until he’s huddled with his back against Brienne. She leans over to place a kiss on the boy’s crown, but nods that Jaime should continue.

“Now, you must understand, as a knight of the realm, it was my sworn duty to protect any maids in peril--”

“_Jaime_,” Brienne says warningly. 

He smirks at her before continuing. “I had no choice but to jump into the pit with her and place myself between your mother and the bear!”

“But you had no sword!” Malcolm protests.

“A minor quibble,” Jaime says, waving his hand as if to dismiss it. 

Brienne snorts and he casts a half-smile her way. 

“You see, boys, there will be moments in your lives still to come where you will be faced with choices. You won’t have time to think about these choices and reason them out, ask for advice, hold a meeting, or anything else to decide. You have to make the choice and come what may. That’s how you know the sort of person you’ll be. I jumped into the bear pit with only one hand and no sword because I couldn’t let them treat your mother as nothing more than an afternoon’s entertainment. 

“Your mother saved my life when she had no cause to and when I had given her every reason to despise me.” Jaime looks at her, savoring for a moment the warmth and depth of memory in her eyes. “And I have spent the greater part of ten years trying to prove myself worthy of her effort.” 

Jaime feels like he’s caught looking at her, the sounds of the sea and gulls and all else falling away until Declan breaks the moment by asking, “But _how_ did you get away from the bear?”

“The men who wanted money from my father for me shot it with crossbows,” Jaime says simply. “Greed is a very powerful motivator. Not the most powerful, mind, but powerful nonetheless.”

“What is the most powerful?” Malcolm asks.

Jaime opens his mouth to answer, but Brienne does before him, “Love.” 

He glances up and swears she’s glancing away at the same time, pulling Declan into a hug and running her fingers through his salt-crusted hair. 

“Your mother is right,” Jaime says, eyes still trained on her. “Love.”


	26. my heart is holding on to you part 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which it's a shame this isn't a modern AU because i really need someone to roast jaime lannister for eat, pray, loving is way back to brienne. alas.

“Jaime,” Brienne greets him, rising from her chair and gesturing for him to sit across from her. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Something in her tone makes the smile on his face falter. His own expression is much more serious when he replies, “Of course, Brienne, I’m at your disposal.” 

“I was hoping we might discuss your future plans,” she says, hoping she seems much calmer and steadier than she feels. “You are, of course, welcome to stay as I’ve said, but I’m sure you’ve other business to address as long as you’ve been away.” 

“Not as such,” Jaime says, his shoulders tense even as his face remains relaxed. “However, if you need me to leave, I’m sure I can find other accommodations.” 

“No, that’s not-” Brienne stops before frustration gets the better of her. “My advisors are beginning to ask questions I have no answers for. It occurs to me that I haven’t bothered to ask myself.” 

“You may ask me anything,” he says sincerely, his entire body radiating acquiescence. 

The problem, perhaps, is that she’s not sure she wants the answers. 

“How long do you plan to stay?” she asks, her pulse already stuttering at that simple question. 

“I’m not certain.” Jaime shifts minutely in his chair. 

“Do you have nothing you must attend to back--” she pauses, realizing suddenly that she has no idea _where_ he’s been since he left.

“I had nothing in Marahai except for a small home,” Jaime explains. “I fished for food and to trade for anything else I needed. When I left, I sold the house for passage back to Westeros.” 

“Jaime…” Brienne says, knowing she sounds breathless, but she can’t even form a coherent thought as she finally begins to piece together the magnitude of -- “What are doing here?” 

Jaime stares at her and the longer he looks the harder her heart beats. She can feel her pulse thumping in her temple, bringing a hot flush to her cheeks that spills down her neck to her chest. 

“I--I don’t know,” he says quietly. She thinks she can see his pulse beating rapidly against the thin skin of his throat. 

“You don’t know?” she asks, bewildered. “You left your home of the last several years on a whim?” 

“No!” he protests. He stares at her again for a prolonged, strange moment where he seems to be searching for _something_. “I kept waiting for some release to happen. I thought if I waited long enough, the burden of everything would lift and I would feel free from it all. Strangely, running away from everything fixed nothing.” 

“But why now?” she asks. “Why _here_?”

Jaime takes a slow breath before he answers. “A trading vessel was forced to stop at Marahai for repairs. They were carrying some goods from Westeros, of particular interest to myself, granite from Tarth. It felt like a sign. So, I sold the home, paid for passage on the trading vessel to Asshai and from there made my way back here.” 

“If the trading vessel had carried wine from Dorne or limestone from The Eyrie, would you be there instead?” she asks, not sure if she wants or fears his answer. 

“No,” he says, barely audible. “I would still be here.”

“_Why_?”

“Because I didn’t leave anything left unsaid in the Eyrie or Dorne,” he says, nearly angry in his frustration. 

“And you left things unsaid here?” she asks, and oh, her traitorous heart can still trip like an eighteen-year-old maiden.

“I believe I did,” he says firmly. “I left things unsaid between the two of us.”

“Oh,” she says. She keeps expecting something further to come forth, but it doesn’t. 

She simply looks at him, at the comforting familiarity of his face, the pulse-pounding glint in his green eyes and sharp edge of his jaw.

“I still don’t--” Jaime sucks in a deep breath. “I’m still sorting it out. When I left, all I could think of was getting as far away from everything as I could. I needed to be somewhere that no one knew me, but no matter how far I traveled or how long I was away, there’s never been a time when you were far from my mind.

“I didn’t know until I was west of Ghaen about your children or your late husband,” he continues. “Not that it would have--I’m not here to cause you trouble, that was never my intent. I only needed to see you.”

“There were things that I would have said then,” she admits, “had we the time before you left.”

“The time and space,” he says.

She nods. 

“You’re very different from when I left,” he says, tilting his head slightly to peer at her. “Not--you’re the same in so many ways, but you look _comfortable_ now.”

“I am,” she says with a soft smile. “It was different after the war. For better or worse, my knighthood earned me respect. The people of Tarth were quite honored for me to represent them so strongly in battle. When I married and provided two sons to inherit, that cemented their good favor. It’s easier to be me now.” 

She realizes he’s been smiling at her for the entirety of her speech.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says with a shake of his head. “Only that I’m still sorting out what was left unsaid and how it fits into who we are now. I’m not the man I once was and I’m certain you’re not the woman I left behind.”

The way he says it as if he_ left _her...as if--but, no. 

“I’m not,” she agrees, instead, it’s easier that way. “It has been good having you here. I often wondered where you were. If you were even…”

“It was selfish of me,” he says. “But then, I’ve never claimed to be elsewise.” 

“No, you haven’t.” 

The silence that descends isn’t precisely uncomfortable, but it is heavy until Jaime finally breaks it by saying, “If you need me to leave, I will. I don’t want to make your home an unpleasant place.”

“No,” she says quickly. “No. I will--it might help if you formally agree to assist Ser Manfryd with pages and squires. You know how advisors and courtiers can be, it’s best if they don’t see a shred of humanity peeking through.” 

“Of course,” Jaime says. “I would more than happy to assist Ser Manfryd. I never thought I would want to see a training yard again, much less take up a sword myself, but I find their enthusiasm bolstering.” He hesitates, looking over her shoulder and wrinkling his brow in concentration for a moment before meeting her eyes once more. “I know it might make things even more uncomfortable for you with your advisors but I would like to spend time with you.”

Brienne opens her mouth to say something, but Jaime beats her to it. 

“Not time spent with your children or sparring with swords in the training yard,” he says. “Time spent talking. I’ve said as much before, but I will repeat myself now, I would like to know the woman you became in my absence. I would know the Brienne of Tarth that wears the mantle of Evenstar, knight and mother with equal aplomb.”

She wants that, too. She wants to know the man that spent years on an island fishing for his own food, with not a penny to his name, and at that, a name no one cared to know. She wants to know how that man and the man she still recognizes in front of her can be one and the same. She thinks he wants to know the same of her. 

She thinks it’s likely more dangerous than any physical battle to invite him close in such a way.

Yet, she still finds herself saying, “I would like that as well.” 

She blushes at the happy expression on his face and relaxed grace of his limbs as he levers himself out of the chair, mocking a half-bow. “Thank you for your time, Ser.” 

Then he _winks_ and departs before she can scold him or _worse_. 


	27. professor!Jaime - office hours sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon request on tumblr. This was mostly written already and just cleaned up and taken out of context and renovated to not need as much of a context. The loveliest, bestest brynnmck did a quick beta for me, because she's just that awesome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FAIR WARNING: there are zero redeeming qualities in this fic if you aren't looking for pure smut with some questionable power dynamics. Brienne is Jaime's student at a University level. She's in undergrad, not that it particularly matters, because she is his student and grad vs. undergrad is a line in the sand if we're discussing power dynamics and splitting hairs about a couple of years, if that. 
> 
> I don't approach that issue with caution. No one cares too much in this section about much beyond the scope of cunnilingus.

Brienne’s gotten used to spending time in Jaime’s office; his hours are usually in the evenings, and it’s not as if students are clamoring to spend time with their professors mid-semester. It’s become something of an enclave, quiet and dimly lit, and filled with texts that legitimately support her term paper. That excuse might wear a bit thin after a while, but her anxious determination to graduate summa cum laude will earn her an amount of leeway than most students could never imagine. 

Still, there are moments when it’s a fool’s errand to even bother opening her work and putting on the pretense of being there for any above-board reason. Especially when Jaime circles around behind her to look at the book she’s reading; an old, giant tome about metallurgy during the Targaryen dynasty. Jaime’s presence is always so overwhelming, especially leaning over her shoulder, his breath warm and damp on her neck. She can’t help the shiver when he says...who knows what, who can say, who _cares_ when he’s so near she’s almost consumed by the warmth of his body. She draws a shaking breath when he straightens, drawing back to his full height. She looks up to find him peering at her, an increasingly familiar look in his eyes that makes the blood heat in her veins. 

He takes a few steps away from her without breaking eye contact before turning to shut the door to his office quietly. 

And then he’s cupping her face and kissing her breathless before she knows what’s happening. It’s almost embarrassing at first how arousing it is just to kiss him, how the rasp of his five o’clock shadow seems to set all of her nerve-endings alight, and how the firm slide of his tongue along her own makes her want to squirm restlessly against him, seeking some sort of relief.

He tugs her from the chair until she’s standing, until she feels like she’s towering over him, but all he does is turn her and press forward until she stumbles back against his desk.

He leans back, looking at her with an expression that makes her breath quicken like a rabbit’s heart. “Jaime?” 

“Sit,” he says, voice gravelly. 

She does, grateful for the relief from her shaking knees. The minute she does, though, he steps between her legs, kissing her like she’s an oasis in the sands of Dorne. She gasps when his mouth leaves her own to mark a path over her jaw and down the column of her neck to suck at that particular spot that leaves her mewling and breathless. She pulls him in with her calves around his hips and whimpers at the feeling of him already half-hard against her thigh.

He grips her thighs, fingertips digging into her muscles beneath the denim of her jeans. “Can you keep quiet?” he murmurs against her shoulder.

“What?” she asks, breathlessly, fingers trembling on his arms. 

He lifts his eyes to meet hers again, his pupils spreading like spilled ink through the green of his irises. “Can you keep quiet?” 

“Oh.” Heat pools between her thighs, wet and wanting. “Yes.”

He smiles, dangerous and sweet all at once. She hopes she never understands how he manages that. 

He kisses her again, hard, bruising, tongue and teeth and desperation, all the while unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans, jerking at the waistband until she lifts her hips enough that he can drag them down her legs. She kicks off her shoes and the pants, not caring where they land, and then his hand is right where she needs it, pressing the cotton of her oh-so-sensible underwear against her needy cunt. He nearly growls when he feels how wet she is, not hesitating to slip his hand beneath the waistband to press between her folds, finding her clit and circling exactly the way he knows makes her fall apart. 

This is familiar: the touch of his fingertips, and when she cants her hips, the stretch of his fingers inside of her as his thumb flicks and glides over her clit until her heart thumps so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t show through her shirt. 

She’s so close, so so close, his teeth digging into her shoulder, two of his fingers curling inside of her as she clenches around him, his thumbnail a shocky counterpoint with them rolling of her hips makes it catch against her sensitive skin. 

But he pulls away and she _whines_. She’s never made the noise she makes when he draws away from her, slipping his hand out of her panties, his mouth away from her skin. 

“Please,” she says and then opens her eyes. 

He’s standing there just looking at her, his own face flushed, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, the front of his slacks tented by his cock. Still staring her in the eye, he lifts his hand and sucks the fingers that were just _inside her_ into his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning as he licks the taste of her off his own skin. 

When he kisses her this time, there’s the faintest flavor of her arousal still on his tongue, musky and salty-sour.

“Do you trust me?” he asks against her lips.

“Of course.”

“Good.” He kisses her firmly one more time and sinks to his knees.

Brienne knows, logically, in the back of her mind that she’s not having a stroke, but the buzzing noise in her ears and the light-headed tingling over her scalp when he goes to his knees between her legs almost overrides her sense. 

“What are you--”

He hooks his fingers into the elastic of her panties and drags them down her legs. 

“Oh gods oh gods oh gods,” she mutters, realizing what’s happening, what’s about to happen, she’s not ready and she’s so ready and she’s terrified and excited and then Jaime’s face is so close to the promised land, his stubble scraping the tender skin of her inner thighs.

He draws a deep breath in through his nose, breaths out through his mouth, the air stirring the wet hair covering her pussy. Only then does he lift his eyes to look at her again. “Remember,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse. “You have to be quiet.”

She whimpers and then his mouth is on her and it’s like nothing she’s ever felt before in her life. It’s nothing like his fingers or her own, it’s...it’s hot and wet and the scrape of his beard hair over her folds almost makes her buck off his desk. He licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit and then does it again and again, until she chants his name and cards her fingers through his hair, begging him to settle over her clit and give her _some relief_.

He moans at the tug of her fingers but follows her request. His tongue darts against her in quick little flicks, making her writhe and squirm.

“Jaime, _please_,” she says as quietly as possible, no longer knowing what’s happening outside the sphere of pleasure he’s created in his dimly lit office. “Please, please, please.”

He sucks. He _sucks_ her clit into his mouth and _rakes_ his teeth over it and she has no idea what noise she makes, all she knows is that suddenly his mouth is gone and she’s shaking her head senselessly. 

She stops when Jaime cups her cheek and kisses her softly, his mouth hotter and wetter than usual, the taste of her cunt heavy on his lips, the smell shockingly thick between them. “Quiet,” he reminds her, capturing first her top lip and then her lower between his. “Do you need me to hold my hand over your mouth?” 

Her cunt clenches at the thought of it; she’s never thought of herself as a woman who would ever want to be silenced, especially not by a man, especially not during sex, and yet the idea of Jaime with his hand over her mouth while he pleasures her...

“Or,” he continues, “we can stop.”

“No, no, no,” she says quickly. “I can be quiet.” 

“Okay.” He kisses her again. “I’m trusting you.” 

Then he’s on his knees again, mouth and tongue and teeth making her lose her mind, driving her to places she's never imagined. She can’t quite stop the noises that abort in the back of her throat, cut off by sheer force of will, hiccups of ecstasy. 

Jaime pulls away long enough to say, “Hold on to me.”

She takes it as permission to wind both of her hands into his hair and hold on for dear life. She knows he’ll stop her if need be, so she lets her body carry her, lets her hips roll against his face, taking his own muffled groans and moans as approval enough. 

She’s on the precipice and she’s learned her body well enough to know she won’t be able to come silently, or anywhere near it; she’ll scream and cry out. She shoves his face away, even if it feels like the hardest thing she’ll ever have to do. He’s dragging air into his lungs when he looks up at her, surprised, licking the slick of her juices from his lips. 

“I can’t--I can’t--” She pulls him up and kisses him, sucking his tongue into her mouth and tugging him close. “I would’ve screamed,” she says shakily, hands trembling where they rest on his arms.

“_Fuck_.” 

He palms her cunt again, looks her in the eye, says, “Bite me if you have to,” and then he’s fucking her with his fingers frantically. 

She comes almost without warning, biting his shoulder hard enough she’s worried she broke the skin, but at least it muffles the cry the seems to come from her gut as she clenches and curls against him, shuddering and shaking from the power of it.

When she calms, he lifts her head and kisses her sweetly, hungrily, licking into her mouth and holding her close enough to feel his still-hard cock against her leg.

She reaches between them to undo his slacks, shoving them off his hips enough to get her hand around his cock. 

“Tissue,” he says, voice choked. 

“What?”

“Tissue,” he reaches around her, fumbling on his desk. “Close.” 

“Oh.” Her pussy throbs with aftershocks, knowing that just going down on her did this to him. 

She strokes him, reveling in the low, pleased noises he makes against her skin as he mouths at her shoulders and neck and jaw and arm and cheek. She knows that when they seem to descend into his chest, turning into growling, near-animalistic grunts and groans, that he’s close.

He, at least, has the foresight cover his dick when he comes so that it only spills over her fingers and the tissue and not over his slacks or shirt, but some part of her is strangely bereft at being denied the sight, even if she still gets to see the tortured expression on his face, the tendon that juts starkly from the side of his throat as he grunts and shudders, leaning his full weight into her embrace.


	28. oops i did it again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the further adventures of professor jaime and his student brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All warnings still apply, except there's a small amount of softness at the beginning of Jaime being like, "do I feel bad? I should feel bad. Wait, I don't feel bad." 
> 
> And then he fucks her over his desk.
> 
> So like, people contain multitudes and sometimes Choices are made.
> 
> Also, I'm on pain medication for a kidney stone that is in progress. The amazering brynnmck beta'd this but I did make edits after she was done so if something doesn't make sense, yell at me not her. 
> 
> I love you all. Sorry I'm a fucking disaster. I will update my actual stories soon. 
> 
> Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

Self-recrimination gets harder the longer the--the relationship lasts. He’d hated himself _deeply_ for weeks when he simply admired her from afar. When he couldn’t quite help but think of how long her legs must be beneath her jeans, and how strong from running marathons. Even her odd features and small breasts and broad shoulders became something of a fascination. Now that he’s unraveled her, has seen every square inch of power and softness she has to offer, he’s too wrapped up in her to be preoccupied with his own selfish loathing. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally taken her home, that she’s spent the night in his bed, curled beneath his blankets as if she belongs there, as if there’s nothing dirty and wrong about what they’re doing.

Maybe it’s that it’s impossible to feel anything but pleasure when she sighs happily into his embrace and curls her seemingly endless limbs around him to hold him close. 

Still, when she wanders into his home office barefoot in nothing but his shirt from yesterday, her hair a tousled mess of cotton fluff, it’s hard to feel like anything but a filthy man; the image assaults him immediately, of her bent over his desk, bare beneath his shirt, already wet and squirming and ready for his cock.

“Morning,” she says with a small yawn, her voice still husky with sleep. 

He’s not proud of how quickly his cock starts to fill--well, maybe he is. She seems to have reset him to his early twenties in terms of revved and ready. 

“Good morning.”

She tilts her head, a small furrow between her eyebrows. 

She still has a pink crease on her cheek from the pillows. 

“What’s wrong?” She perches on the edge of his desk near his chair. 

His gaze travels from her toes to where her legs disappear beneath the wrinkled cotton. He licks his lips.

“Nothing.”

“You sound--” 

He looks up at her and she flushes pink, a stain from her cheeks all the way down her neck. 

“Oh,” she says, more a breath more than a word. “But I must look--”

“You look like you had a good night’s sleep after being well-fucked,” he says thickly, shifting and resisting the urge to adjust himself through the thick cotton of his sweatpants just yet. He glances down to watch his fingertips raise goosebumps on her thigh as they draw a path along the hem of his shirt. “Are you wearing anything under here?” 

When he looks to her face again, her chest is rising and falling heavily. 

“Will you be disappointed if I say yes?” she asks quietly.

He tries not to smile at her, at the genuine worry in her voice. “The only way I could be disappointed is if you banned me from removing whatever you have beneath there permanently.”

She shakes her head rather vigorously. “I wouldn’t.”

He slides his hand beneath the fabric to the elastic of her underwear at her hip, hooking one of his fingers over it but not quite tugging. Yet. 

“I was thinking of something in particular.” Her eyes trace his tongue as it wets his lips. 

“Oh?”

He hums. “I was thinking of things we can’t do on the desk in my office on campus.” He lifts an eyebrow and her thighs tense beneath his palms, but based on the look in her eyes, he’s pretty sure it’s from pressing them together. 

“Like what?” she asks. Her voice quavers, but she smoothes her hand up his arm and over his shoulder, curling her fingers to scrape her blunt nails over the bare skin of his chest. She stops at the bite mark she left right above his left nipple last night, tracing it with the tip of her index finger. He stops the caress with a gentle hand on the back of her wrist. 

She looks up from his chest, eyebrows lifted gently, eyes wide and querying. 

He stands, pushing her legs apart and reveling in the sharp intake of air she draws. 

“I’m sure you can imagine some of it.” He leans in to kiss her jaw. She tilts her neck so he can reach his true purpose, that spot beneath her jaw near her ear that makes her toes curl. He scrapes her with his morning stubble to hear her whimper before pressing his lips to her ear to mutter, “But I think some of it would surprise you.”

“I think you should tell me,” she says, wrapping her legs around him, hooking her ankles together at the small of his back. 

“I was thinking,” he says, drawing her earlobe into his mouth and dragging his teeth along it. She arches into him before he continues, “I was imagining bending you over and having you hold on while I fuck you.” The noise she makes is the same aborted cry she does when he drags his teeth across her nipples or sets the edge of a fingernail against her clit. “Would you like that?”

She nods, her short fingernails digging into the bare skin of his back. “Yes.”

He groans and steps out of the embrace of her legs, reaching beneath the shirt to yank the underwear down her legs, tossing them away carelessly. _Fuck_. He still can’t figure out _what_ it is about her that rends him apart from inside out. 

She’s so pale on his mahogany desk, milky skin against the stark white cotton button-up, her hair a pale blonde halo in the sunlight pouring through the windows. The only heavily saturated places are her deep blue eyes and bitten red lips, and, only he knows, the rosy hue of her peaked nipples and the flushed pink of her pussy. He closes in on her again, kissing her heavily, reaching between their bodies to cup her. 

“Gods.” He groans. “You’re already so wet.”

She makes a noise and presses her face into his neck. He pulls away and cups her cheek with his free hand until she looks at him, her face flushed with embarrassment. 

He kisses her softly and takes one of her hands, pressing it to his hard cock. “Don’t be embarrassed. The gods know I’m just as ready for you.” 

She rubs him through the soft fabric of his sweatpants and kisses him desperately. “I don’t want to--” she trails off, pressing against the hand still cupping her mound. “I want you _now_.”

“Yes, fuck. _Fuck_.” He steps away, taking her hands and drawing her to a standing position too. He kisses her once and turns her away from him, brushing aside her hair and kissing her neck. He grips her hips and presses his cock against her ass, letting her feel exactly how much he needs her. She grinds against him and he swears he sees sparks. “_Fuck_.” 

He slides one hand up her spine stopping in the middle of her shoulders blades and pressing gently. It’s not nearly hard enough to actually move her if she doesn’t want to be moved, but she follows his touch easily, bending over, bracing herself on her hands and walking them forward until she’s gripping the far side of his desk. He takes a moment to scrub his hands over his face and through his hair. Every long inch of her body is spread out for him, trusting and open and ready, _wanting_.

He flips the shirt up over her hips and uses his foot to push against the inside of hers so she’ll spread her legs more. She’s so slick and pink, her cunt clenching beneath his gaze. 

She flinches when he places his hand on her waist and he stops, pressing more firmly but not moving. 

“Are you okay?” 

She nods, not looking back at him. 

“Brienne,” he says slowly. She tenses slightly. “Look at me, please.”

He watches her ribcage expand and contract with a large breath before she looks over her shoulder, her face nearly crimson, her lower lip just as violently red from her teeth biting into it. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” she says shakily.

“If you don’t, I don’t care.” He leans over her, as close as he can get to her face from his position. “This isn’t good for me if it’s not good for you.”

She sucks one side of her bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s weird not being able to see you, that’s all. You startled me.”

He looks at her, trying to pick apart any signs of deception. She’s a terrible liar, and he hopes his dick hasn’t clouded his judgment enough to suddenly misread her. 

“If it’s not good for you,” he says seriously, not breaking eye contact, “you stop me immediately.”

She nods. “I will.” 

“Please don’t break my trust.”

“I won’t,” she says firmly.

He kisses her shoulder and stands back up. He shoves his sweats down, stepping out of them and stroking his cock. He doesn’t panic when she startles at the touch of his hand this time, and she doesn’t remain tense. She relaxes immediately, even pressing back into it. He slides it to her pussy, slipping his fingers between her folds to find her clit. She squeaks and curls away from him before rolling into the caress. He presses his thumb inside her; she flutters around the intrusion, whimpering. 

“More,” she says. 

He might die, but what a way to go. He just hopes dating a stronger woman means she can get his pants on him before the coroner arrives. 

He thinks the house down the block might hear them when he finally pushes inside. He groans, the noise jerked from the pit of his stomach, and Brienne cries out, curving upward, her head thrown back between her shoulders. He wraps an arm around her hips, holding her to him, pressing them together as close as they can get until he’s sure he won’t come the moment he moves. 

Her cunt flutters around his cock, her breath coming in hiccuping gasps as she accustoms to the new position and angle. 

“Okay?” he asks, voice strangled in his tight throat. 

“Yesyesyes,” she chants breathlessly. 

He thrusts, shallowly at first, and even that has Brienne chanting a litany of blasphemy into the desk. He’s almost more preoccupied with the ecstasy she’s in than the mindbending pleasure of her body gripping his cock, the length of her exposed where the shirt has slipped up to pool beneath her shoulders, exposing the muscles of her back, writhing and moving with his strokes. 

His orgasm builds like an inferno, burning through his veins like wildfire. He reaches between her legs and finds her clit, circling it furiously until she screams, her pussy clamping around him like a vise. He pulls out just in time to stroke himself twice before striping her back and thighs with come. 

He falls forward over her, not caring if he smears his own spend between them. He presses himself to her, their sweat-slick skin sliding together. He presses kisses everywhere his mouth can reach, barely holding himself up on shaking arms bracketing her chest. 

“Fuck, Brienne.” He presses his forehead to her spine before finally peeling himself away to stand on weak-feeling legs. 

He tugs her until she turns around, the look on her face almost spacey and baffled. He brushes the hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears and cupping her cheeks. She sits on the edge of the desk again, wrapping her arms around him and drawing him close, hugging him with trembling limbs. 

She kisses him softly, her hands stroking up and down his back. “That was...that was…”

“I hope the ending to that sentence is positive,” Jaime murmurs, nuzzling her cheek and dropping his hands to soothe along her shoulders and arms. 

She laughs, pressing her forehead to his cheek. “I think the word I was looking for was amazing.” 

“Good,” he says. “Sorry about the mess.”

She shrugs. “You have a shower.” 

He hums, delicious plans already forming in his mind. “That I do.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the tumblr prompt: 10. A hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking - where neither person thinks twice about it.
> 
> Except it's not quite that because I can't follow instructions.

Professional Boxer Brienne Tarth’s life goes from fine to a nightmare in a touch with no more weight than a butterfly’s wings, but with the impact of a freight train. 

\--

Jaime’s one of those people that is so oblivious to their existence that it’s maddening. It’s like he was so privileged growing up that the privilege didn’t stick in a way where he’s shitty; if anything, he’s unfailingly generous. He gives his time and money like they’re air. He donates to charity; he volunteers; he’s kind to animals and kids and the elderly. 

The one time she’d mentioned in passing that she’d expected him to be an asshole, he’d gotten that kicked puppy look on his face and made some excuse to leave immediately. 

It wasn’t until a couple days later that he’d confessed he’d been that asshole in his twenties, a real fuckin’ asshole that treated people like shit. Then ‘the hand thing’ had happened and he’d had nothing but months of physical and mental therapy to re-evaluate his entire existence. 

One hand and one family down, he’d gotten his shit together.

Now he’s like this lighthouse of happiness and goodness. People are just drawn to him. 

_She’s_ drawn to him, which is really the worst, because on top of being the nicest person she’s ever met he’s also the most ridiculously handsome person she’s ever met. Golden and god-like, truly, lean muscle and sharp-jawed and green-eyed, with a heart-stopping smile that seems to reside permanently on his face when he looks at her.

Dastardly. 

\--

Margaery and Sansa have both been telling her for weeks that Jaime only smiles at _her _like that. He smiles at everyone. But he has a special smile for _her_. Which is ridiculous. 

But then they’re all at her and Sansa’s place after a night out at the movies, having a final beer. It’s late, winding down into the early hours of the morning when Jaime sighs and says he needs to leave. 

Brienne follows him to the door to lock it behind him, because _safety_. 

He goes in for the normal hug and then _very unlike normal_ his lips brush against hers. It’s so soft she’s almost able to convince herself she imagined it, except she turns around to find both Sansa and Margaery staring at her with twin looks of excitement. 

\--

Stupidly, she expects Jaime to act awkwardly around her after that. But of course he doesn’t. Because he’s Jaime Lannister and people that look and act like Jaime Lannister can casually kiss their good friends good night and it can mean nothing. 

When she gets to the gym the next evening, he smiles brightly.

“Hey.” He all but bounces over to her. “Sparring session?” He puts up his gloves, including the one specially altered to fit over his amputation, and playfully punches the air. 

“Sure,” she says, a little taken aback at just how normal he’s acting. Maybe he forgot. Maybe it _didn’t_ happen. 

They spar, and that’s normal, too. He doesn’t let her win, but she beats him anyway, and he smiles because he’s always happy to be pummeled by her. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks as they unwind the tape from their knuckles.

“Oh.” She looks over, eyebrows raised, but he’s just crumbling the tape into a ball and stuffing it into his pocket. “Sure.”

He looks at her, smiles. “Shower time.” And then leans in and...and he kisses her. 

Again.

\--

It.

Keeps.

Happening.

Not every single time, but certainly more often than not, and always just the faintest brush of lips on lips. He never pushes for anything more; he doesn’t act like it’s weird or different, and Brienne may actually lose her mind before much longer. 

She holds on for weeks. Weeks of never knowing when he’ll hug her goodbye, and when that hug will end in a gentle kiss. 

But all good things must come to an end, and Brienne Tarth is incapable of allowing nice things to just happen to her. 

Jaime comes over to watch the football game and it’s all beer and chips and giving each other shit about their rival teams and it’s so nice and feels so normal and then he leaves and it happens.

But this time, instead of just letting him leave, she locks her hand around his wrist in what’s probably a bruising grip judging by his wince.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asks, her voice so sharp even she barely keeps from flinching.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” She tugs on his arm until his body is turned square with her again. “Why do you keep kissing me goodbye?”

He looks like a frightened rabbit. Or puppy. Or--or--or some other small creature, the kind you take home with you even though you don’t have money for the pet deposit or the supplies because you can’t bear to leave them behind. 

“I can stop.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She watches as his chest rises and falls faster and faster, the way his pupils dilate more. She’s so used to watching the minute changes in an opponent’s facial expressions, she just never expected to do it outside of the ring.

“I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Because--” He looks at her, his eyes darting around her face, almost as if taking it in for the last time. “Because I--” his eyes drop to his feet. “Because I don’t know how to--_fuck_.” 

If she was confused before…

“None of those were sentences.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, draws a deep breath, lets it out slowly and then lifts his gaze to hers once more. And that’s what it is. A gaze. He’s gazing at her with an expression she doesn’t recognize, something soft and almost sad and something that takes up a weight in her chest so quickly she can’t breathe. 

“Because I thought if I told you how much I wanted to, you wouldn’t let me.” He sighs. “I know I should have asked first, but I also thought...well, I figured if you didn’t like it, you’d just break my nose for me and I would’ve deserved it.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” She blinks at him, trying to digest what he’s saying, but it makes no sense. Not really. Sure, he’s been kissing her, but they haven’t been -- they’ve just been -- short, tiny little things. Not. Not. Not _kisses_. Just. Kisses. Not _kisses_. 

“I want to kiss. All the time,” he says desperately, leaning closer. “I’ve wanted to for a while. I can’t stop thinking about it every time I see you.”

She’s probably gaping like a fish, but there’s really no other appropriate response to such a declaration. 

“Can I?” he asks quietly, close enough now that she can feel his breath on her skin. 

“Can you what?” she asks, surprised to hear her shaky her voice is.

“Kiss you.”

“Oh,” she breathes, feeling faintly light-headed, like the heroine in one of the classic romances Margaery devours. “Yes.”

And then he _kisses_ her.

Gods, does he kiss her. 


	30. a dick-related mishap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boredom was Jaime Lannister’s greatest enemy. He did okay when he was occupied, either by exercise or work or going out with friends or--but his shattered ankle made most of the things that kept him busy were out of the question. 
> 
> Or that was his excuse for finding himself shuffling around his bedroom, trying to set-up the perfect mood lighting that would also create flattering highlights and shadows for his masterpiece. 
> 
> _Mastur-piece_, more like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this never happened. please don't put this on my tombstone. this is based on that post on tumblr with the screenshot where a guy sent his dickpic to his friends for feedback.
> 
> also i cannot take credit for broenne. that was from the genius angel-deux. i did not ask for permission, i asked for forgiveness.

Boredom was Jaime Lannister’s greatest enemy. He did okay when he was occupied, either by exercise or work or going out with friends or--but his shattered ankle made most of the things that kept him busy were out of the question.

Or that was his excuse for finding himself shuffling around his bedroom, trying to set-up the perfect mood lighting that would also create flattering highlights and shadows for his masterpiece.

_Mastur-piece_, more like.

Someone had sent him a dick pic critique website ages ago, and he’d spent an egregious amount of time actually looking at the pictures and reading the feedback. He’d never really thought about one beyond showing he was ready, willing, and able.

Still, he hadn’t been in a relationship at the time, and didn’t have anyone he trusted enough to send a bunch of nudes. He wasn’t _famous_, but his father wasn’t an unknown, and having his cock splashed all over the internet didn’t sound like a great time to him, so only trusted partners got the absolute joy of seeing him in all his glory.

Now.

Now, though, he had absolutely nothing better to do with his Saturday afternoon. It was the golden hour, and his bedroom got a nice amount of light. So he positioned himself in a sunbeam, shucked his boxers, and squirted some lube in his palm.

Showtime.

\--

Jaime selected the one where his dick looked the biggest and the one that was technically better lit, added Addam, Elia, Ilyn, Bronn, and Cleos to a group text and sent both before he could think better of it.

**Jaime:** Thoughts?

**Addam:** Am I looking at your cock

**Ilyn:** Nice

**Elia:** I like 2

**Elia:** The lighting is nice

**Jaime:** The balls aren’t too much?

**Addam:** The balls are the best part

**Cleos**: I don’t want to be here

**Broenne:** Dick looks better in the first

**Broenne**: But I agree with El second pic is better

It took Jaime all of five glorious seconds to realize that the reason Bronn wasn’t insulting his size, angles, coloring, and rigidity was because he didn’t include fucking _Bronn_; he’d included _Brienne_.

Goddamn his _super duper funny_ nickname for her.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fucking fuck.

He didn’t even know what to say to her now. He would never have sent one to her intentionally. They weren’t -- he wasn’t -- she didn’t--

They didn’t have _that_ sort of relationship. Brienne wasn’t the type of person that was super comfortable looking at his hard cock and giving him feedback on angles. She was … _gentler_ than that. She wasn’t like the rest of his group of friends. She was special.

And now he’d probably offended her or upset her and he didn’t even know how to convince her he hadn’t meant to do it in the first place without making it worse.

\--

Muffins.

He sent her muffins. It made sense when he was placing the order. A dozen of those gross bran power protein muffins from that bakery near her place that she somehow managed to eat. He’d tried one once and smiled, and then desperately washed it down with the nearest liquid at hand. He was at least raised to know that spitting out food was rude.

Still, Brienne liked them, and it was a simple call to have them delivered with the message: _sorry about the text - Jaime_

The bakery staff that took the order was noticeably less friendly after he gave her the information, but by then it was just a matter of giving his credit card number and he never had to speak to that person ever again.

It was no small miracle that he managed not to ramble out some excuse about how it wasn’t as bad as it sounded on paper.

\--

**Broenne:** You didn’t need to send me muffins

**Broenne:** I’m not upset

**Jaime**: Can’t a friend just send another friend muffins?

**Broenne:** Not with an apology note attached

**Broenne**: Its fine

**Broenne:** I’ve seen dicks before

**Broenne**: Yours wasnt that shocking

**Broenne:** That sounds wrong

**Broenne:** It was a nice enough dick

**Broenne:** I just meant that I wasnt freaked out

**Broenne:** I mean its fine

**Broenne:** We’re fine

By the final text, Jaime was actually laughing aloud to himself, alone, in his apartment. He could just picture her flushed face and trembling lips as she continued to try and self-correct.

**Jaime:** As long as we’re fine

**Broenne:** We are

But for some reason, he still felt unsettled.

\--

Brienne turned up at his door five days later with three pizza boxes and a twelve-pack of beer.

“It’s like you chose the exact opposite of what I sent you,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “I would offer to help, but--” he balanced on his good leg and lifted the crutches with a shrug.

“I think I can handle some pizza and beer,” she said, stepping around him. “After all, I’ve had all of those protein muffins to fuel me.” She flexed her back muscles as if to demonstrate; he could feel his tongue try to tie itself into knots. “Go sit back down, I think I can find the fridge. Can you have a beer?”

“Yeah,” he said, hopping back to the couch. “I’m down to just over-the-counter stuff, but I’m not taking much.”

“You’re not in pain?”

“Not unless I accidentally hit it on something or roll over weird in bed.”

“That’s good,” she said, coming back around the corner with the pizza and two open beers. “Turn on the game and shove over.”

\--

Five innings into the game, Brienne, out of nowhere, asked, “So who was the picture for?”

“Huh?” he asked around a massive bite of pizza.

“The picture of your,” she hesitated and gestured to his lap, before finally saying, “dick.”

“Oh! No one.” She raised a dubious eyebrow. “Pinkie swear. I was bored.”

“I’ve got to say, I have never taken a nude photo of myself out of boredom.”

It was his turn to life an eyebrow, his mouth ticking up in a smirk. “But you’ve taken them for other reasons?”

She immediately flushed puce, raised the beer bottle and mumbled, “Hasn’t everyone?” before taking a long swig, her plush lips wrapping around the mouth of the bottle, her neck tightening on a deep swallow.

He did his best to ignore the small tick of adrenalin at the sigh. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice huskier than he expected. “You tell me.”

She managed to roll her eyes, even as she traced a stray drop of beer with her tongue. Which, frankly, seemed like dirty pool to Jaime. “Yes.”

“I can’t believe Brienne Tarth has nudie pics.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Please don’t call them nudie pics.”

“They are nudie pics, though,” he pointed out. “Pictures, pics. Of you naked, nude.”

And then, damn his brain, he _thought_ about it. About her. Naked. Taking pictures of herself. And he was not happy with his brain or his body for the act or the _re_action.

“Hey,” she said sharply, disrupting him. “You okay?”

“What?” he choked out. “Of course. What?”

She tilted her head and eyed him suspiciously. “Yeah, you seem okay.”

“I was just...lost in thought,” he said carefully.

She snorted. “Well, there’s a change of pace.”

“You should be nicer to me.” He lifted his casted leg off the table. “I’m injured.”

“I brought you dinner _and_ alcohol, she reminded him. “And you should have enough for lunch or dinner tomorrow. How much nicer can I be?”

There were a million things that flitted through his mind, varying shades from innocent to filthy, and in the end all he ended up doing was getting stuck looking at her mouth. When his eyes finally drifted back up to hers, she looked still too, as if maybe she was stuck as well. He leaned in and--

Brienne’s phone chirped. She flinched and looked away, picking up her phone. “Gods, it’s almost midnight.” She glanced up at him. “That was Sansa. She was asking me when I’d get home because she needs help with something.”

It sounded dubious at best to Jaime, but he nodded and levered himself off the couch without a word, worried he’d made things awkward with that almost-whatever before her phone interrupted.

“Do you need help putting things away before I go?” she asked, hesitating by the door. “I don’t want you to --”

“I live alone,” he reminded her. “I’ve been managing for weeks now. I’ll make do.”

She nodded and opened the door, but then she hesitated and glanced over at him almost shyly, a blush creeping its way from her cheeks, down her neck, until it disappeared beneath the neckline of her t-shirt. “Maybe next time you could send a dick pic to me on purpose,” she said. “Just to me.”

“Yeah?” he asked, feeling warmth spread beneath his own skin.

“Yeah,” she said, drawing her lower lip between her teeth in a betrayal of nerves.

He smiled, warmth blooming in his chest like a shot of whiskey. “Just you,” he agreed.

She kissed him goodbye and he wanted to pull her back into his apartment, but he didn’t want his first attempt at impressing her with his prowess to be when he still had one leg in a hardcast.

He’d had more than enough dick related mishaps for one week.


End file.
